


what this darkness cannot swallow, it must spit out

by Dialux



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: ...how to FAIL at getting a guy who hates you to kill you, Alternate Universe - Caranthir Fucks, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brother-Brother Relationships, Dysfunctional Families Slowly Becoming Functional, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Feanorian Family Feels, Fëanorian Week 2021, Gen, Grief/Mourning, How To Get A Guy Who Hates You To Kill You, Maedhros' Awful Sense Of Humor Post-Rebirth, Mother-Son Relationship, No. None of the Feanorians Can Keep Secrets., Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, The Therapeutic Vibe Of Planting Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 01:55:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30115383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dialux/pseuds/Dialux
Summary: Caranthir sighs, disgusted, and sits on the bed, as far as he can get from Celegorm without appearing like he’s halfway to crawling out of his skin. “I didn’t come back to life so I could hear how much my dying traumatized you.”“You fuckingbastard,”says Celegorm, and lunges.[When Caranthir is reborn into Valinor, he must deal with everything he left behind in Beleriand- the annoying brothers, the overbearing parents, the family he lost and will never regain.But there are things that Caranthir does not know. There are lies that have not yet been unwound. There are mercies he has never expected. It takes orange trees, infuriating brothers, silver ribbons and unseasonal thunderstorms, but slowly Caranthir learns precisely how wrong he is.]
Relationships: Amras & Amrod & Caranthir | Morifinwë, Caranthir | Morifinwë & Celegorm | Turcafinwë, Caranthir | Morifinwë & Curufin | Curufinwë, Caranthir | Morifinwë & Fëanor | Curufinwë, Caranthir | Morifinwë & Maedhros | Maitimo, Caranthir | Morifinwë & Maglor | Makalaurë, Caranthir | Morifinwë & Nerdanel, Caranthir | Morifinwë & Original Female Character(s), Caranthir | Morifinwë/Haleth of the Haladin
Comments: 37
Kudos: 100





	what this darkness cannot swallow, it must spit out

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Feanorian Week Day 4, Caranthir, but runs far, far away from the prompts, lol.
> 
> Warnings for this story include: suicidal thoughts/actions, dysfunctional family relationships, grief/mourning, and some... questionable eating/sleeping habits. I promise you that this does have a happy ending, even if the path to get there isn't very light. 
> 
> Otherwise, some inspirations:  
> \- [This](https://dialux.tumblr.com/post/641656537071353856/an-ode-to-brotherhood-let-my-people-go-prince) is a compilation I made for some of the bro feels I explore in this fic. Let's say that... I spent a hell of a long time trying to work "hail and farewell" into this story, but it hasn't happened ://  
> \- I've referenced a lot of the headcanons that I built into this story on my tumblr, some of which you can find here: [x](https://dialux.tumblr.com/post/643902065467326464/caranthir-and-maedhros-post-nirnaeth-i-need-more) [x](https://dialux.tumblr.com/post/643990812503539712/it-isnt-that-i-want-to-give-caranthir-all-the) [x](https://dialux.tumblr.com/post/643075440461987841/feanorian-height-drama)  
> \- title comes from [ this poem.](https://dialux.tumblr.com/post/638583165707042816/o-madness-o-misery-what-this) Actually, a lot of my emotions in this fic are products of Yves Olade's poetry, who is.... mm. Chef's kiss, you know?
> 
> No diacritics because I've, like, completely given up on it at this point.   
> Many many thanks to @skyeventide for the beta! This story would not be the same without you XD
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy!

Caranthir is the last of his siblings to be reborn, and even then it seems to be more that Namo tires of seeing his morose fea in his Halls than any true healing on Caranthir’s part. 

It’s been thousands of years since Curufin and Feanor- the last of them- was reborn. Mandos’ halls, once teeming with fear, are now mostly empty. This isn’t so much as a choice as it is acceptance of a decision that cannot be unmade on Caranthir's part.

Maglor and Amras are there to meet him with their mother, arms full of light linen shirts and fluffy white bread and turmeric-stained milk, apparently the only thing that newly-Returned people can keep down without difficulty. Caranthir, true to form, doesn’t seem capable of even that; he throws up everything he bothers to eat just outside Tirion’s gates and so he doesn’t really recognize Finarfin or the rest of his cousins waiting for him: he’s half-dizzy from the pain, his belly keeps cramping, and he rather desperately wants to wash the bile out of his mouth more than he cares for any family he avoided very efficiently in the Halls.

And then he’s back home- and Nerdanel’s guided him to his room. Caranthir waves them out before collapsing on his bed.

He doesn’t sleep because he doesn’t dare to, but he does close his eyes and bury his head in the covers. Lavender sachets lend the blanket a scratchy, floral scent. Caranthir laughs at that, and ignores how the sound catches in his throat. He’d never liked lavender but had never had the heart to tell Nerdanel, and she remembers what he’d ostensibly liked however many Ages ago. The thought might have counted for more if not for how dreadfully awful he finds the smell.

But Caranthir can’t keep the world out, much as he’d like to. Namo had taught him that much, even if none of his other teachings really took root.

So after a while, Caranthir gets up, and takes a bath- he ignores how sensitive this new skin is through the simple expedient of turning the water as cold as Thargelion in the week before it froze over, numbing his entire body really fucking efficiently- and then goes through the clothes stored in the shelves for him. They’re simple and well-made and obviously new. He picks up the one that’s least likely to get in his way. Then he spends another hour wrestling his hair into something that doesn’t look dreadful: Namo’s restored him to his pre-Nirnaeth hair, and it’s fucking _difficult_ because-

_Don’t think about it._

The bile sits on the back of his tongue. Caranthir stares at himself in the mirror and forces himself not to flinch. It must be obvious to everyone how close he is to collapse. To a complete and unforgivable breakdown. His face sits in the mirror like Tilion at its fattest, and Caranthir’s never quite loathed it so much before. Once it might have glowed red with anger or shame; now it just fucking _sits_ there.

He turns from it, and swills some more water, and then he grinds his hands into his eyes hard enough to hurt before stalking out of the room.

…

His abrupt reappearance startles his brothers and parents: that much is obvious.

Caranthir accepts the exuberant hug from Celegorm, the quieter but no looser hug from Curufin, and the all-encompassing hug from his father. He makes a point of not looking at the empty seat at the table, rather taking his usual position: in the middle seat on the left side. Maglor usually sat next to him, closer to their mother, and the Ambarussa opposite Maglor; Curufin at Caranthir’s other side; Celegorm opposite Caranthir, and-

_Don’t fucking think about it._

“I don’t think you’re up for dinner, Moryo,” says Feanor, a little gently. “Newly returned bodies need some time to-”

“I’m fine,” says Caranthir. He scrapes up a smile. “I’ve always been fast at things: I feel much better than I did outside the Halls.”

“Some broth might be a good idea, I think,” says Feanor.

Caranthir lets his smile grow teeth. “Is that what you’ll have, Atar?”

“I-”

“What _is_ the menu for tonight, actually?”

“It’s Celegorm’s doing,” says Nerdanel, the only person who looks calm at the table. “He’s taken up cooking as a- what do they call it nowadays?- a _hobby._ He’s rather good at it.”

“Are you?” asks Caranthir, and can’t keep the incredulous edge from his voice.

Celegorm’s face flickers through a complicated set of expressions. “I… enjoy myself, I suppose. It’s a recent thing,” he explains. “Don’t worry. I didn’t lie to you back in- Beleriand.”

“I don’t believe you,” says Caranthir, but he laughs too, and relaxes on the bench as Celegorm brings out a giant platter of something that smells like too much fat for Caranthir to enjoy even in his prime.

He does choke it down, though, and keeps it down, and manages to smile at his brothers without feeling ghastly. Maglor’s spent more than four thousand years in Aman- he’s adopted two children in Beleriand, and apparently one of them survived while the other didn’t- and lives in his own home a few streets down, closer to his son than to their parents. Celegorm tends to spirit in and out of Tirion with far more freedom than usual, sometimes accompanied by Aredhel and Finrod, sometimes alone. Curufin lives with his wife and son, and all three of them are, apparently, “very happy.” Amrod has begun courting, but he’s been courting for three Ages; Amras lives with Turgon in Gondolin Remade, which is one of the stranger things that Caranthir’s heard in his life, but explained by his affection for one of Turgon’s lords.

“Maitimo wanted to be here,” says Nerdanel, after a delicate pause. “But he’s found himself very busy with something in Formenos. He sent a letter for you, love.”

Caranthir swallows. Remembers- remembers-

 _Don’t you fucking dare,_ he warns himself.

“I’ll read it,” he manages.

…

In his room, he keeps the cheese in his stomach. He fingers the letter from Maedhros, and sets it down on the dresser unopened, and buries himself beneath the itchy blanket. Caranthir keeps his eyes open, flat and unseeing, and measures the smooth rise of the moon the full night long by his heartbeats.

…

The next morning, Caranthir strides out of his parents’ house to Finarfin’s castle. He doesn’t mind the cold: it feels rather like a balm to his still-sensitive skin, so he doesn’t wear a cloak. Inside of the castle is an endless maze of people and corridors. Perhaps he frightens some of the assistants; Caranthir doesn’t precisely care.

In about an hour’s time, he finally manages to track down some of the people involved in land ownership. Another hour and Caranthir’s frightened someone into calling for their supervisor, who calls for their supervisor, who blanches at the look on Caranthir’s face- or perhaps just at his face- and calls for Finrod.

“What’s the issue?” asks Finrod immediately, chivvying Caranthir over to a small office.

It’s been hastily cleared of its occupant. There’s a half-eaten orange on the desk, and Caranthir picks at it before chewing on the peel.

“No issue,” he says, when Finrod- obligingly- makes a strangled sound of protest. “I just wanted to expedite some of the land ownership forms.”

“Right,” says Finrod faintly. “You know, I’d thought that Tyelko would’ve been the difficult one.”

Caranthir bares his teeth back. He’d sharpened them once, on a whim, and apparently the theme had caught on with Finrod, who’d used it to tear that werewolf’s throat to pieces. Or so the stories had gone. _Saved one and slaughtered the other,_ Caranthir had thought to himself then, half-hysterical, half-mad. _Or: slaughtered both! Because we all die!_

 _Died,_ he reminds himself now, and forces the bitterness of the orange peel to ground him in the present.

“No idea why,” says Caranthir. “Maglor was always the one who we couldn’t keep on topic.”

“Moryo-”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Carni-”

“Or that.”

“Caranthir!”

“Yes,” says Caranthir flatly. “That’s my name.”

 _“Fine,”_ says Finrod, looking exasperated. “You’ve been back for literally less than a day.”

“It’s been a little more than that, actually.” Caranthir checks his empty wrist. “About an hour ago.”

Finrod closes his eyes. “How the hell are you eating already?”

“Iron stomach, or something like that,” says Caranthir dryly. “I don’t have much of an appetite, but it’s staying down.”

“Caranthir. I mean with this all the love in the world. But you need to slow down.”

“If I slow down,” says Caranthir, “I’ll end up taking the axe in my lovely room to either my mother’s gallery, Argon’s fucking looms, or an innocent shopowner’s stall.” He doesn’t look away from Finrod as he pops the last orange slice into his mouth. “I’d prefer not to frustrate my mother, nor destroy Argon’s joy- the poor boy certainly never had any before!- nor has attacking the innocent ever been my sin of choice, so I think it is in the best interest of family, the public, and you, personally, to let me have a plot of fucking land in the middle of fucking nowhere!”

Finrod stares at him. “Say that again,” he orders, “with fewer threats.”

“I will literally build an illegal cottage in the middle of your land,” threatens Caranthir instead.

_“Caranthir.”_

“I will make such a sound I’ll ensure you don’t sleep. All night long.”

“Fewer threats,” says Finrod flatly. “Ask. Or I’ll accept that I’ll not have sleep for another couple years, and tell Amarie to go to Valmar if she wants peace.”

“Fine,” says Caranthir ungraciously.

…

He gets what he wants but Finrod drags it out enough that Caranthir’s left grumpy and light-headed. He ends up gasping halfway home, nauseous down to his bones, but the discipline he’d honed on himself in Beleriand has paid off: Caranthir shakes and shivers and sweats, but he does it in a tucked-away corner of an awning that nobody else seems to realize exists, and he doesn’t make a mess that has to be cleaned.

Instead he makes his way back home grimacing, and though Feanor catches him in the entry hall he doesn’t seem to notice anything awry. Caranthir forces himself up the stairs and, safely back in his own room, strips off the sweat-sodden shirt. He spends the rest of the day sketching plans for the house he’ll build on that plot of land.

The lip of the roof will curve at an angle, and it will be the same angle of her hair, dark and usually braided tightly but loose in the moments after a bath, a riot that tumbles down her spine- _my crowning glory,_ she'd said once, wryly- and he’d offered her a crown but she’d only taken the silver ribbons, his sweet, sweet-

_Don’t fucking think about it!_

That night’s dinner is quieter: just Celegorm and their parents. Caranthir works his way through about seven-tenths of his plate before forcing himself to stop, and talks about going for a walk through the city until even Nerdanel looks a little exhausted of the prattle.

 _Good,_ he thinks, and determinedly doesn’t think about who he’s channeling. 

_Don’t think about it,_ Caranthir reminds himself, and it’s become such a common refrain that it feels like a lullaby.

…

This is the truth of it: Caranthir had loved a mortal woman. He’d loved her purely, truly, wholly. They hadn’t had children, but then Caranthir had never wanted them. Her line had ended in the Nirnaeth, the last of them- the _last_ of them-

This is just the first of the lies that Namo tried to unravel.

…

He gets his plot of land. It’s in the middle of the forest, on a cool, windy hill; has a river near it. There’s enough space for a garden. When he explains as much to his mother, she looks concerned, but Caranthir’s apparently adjusted so well to being reborn that they trust him.

Maedhros still hasn’t come back.

The letter taunts him, unopened.

_Don’t think about it._

…

He barely sleeps, but after the Nirnaeth- after the Dagor Bragollach, really, but he made a conscious effort only after the Nirnaeth- Caranthir doesn’t need as much sleep as a normal elf, nor even as much food. Left to his own devices he eats quickly, barely makes any sound, and spends his time making strange, ugly things in the privacy of his rooms.

Once Caranthir gets his own house, he’ll build a forge. For now he sketches his ideas out on rough parchment and makes all his edits there. There’s no force on earth that could induce him to meet Curufin on Curufin’s ground. He’s learned his lessons there.

…

_If I see you again, I’ll kill you._

_Too afraid to kill yourself, is it?_

A hand at his throat. Eyes, silvered with grief. 

_You killed him! You did it!_ You _did it!_

_Maybe I fucking did._

The hand tightens. Grief: for some it remains grief. For others it turns to rage. For the sons of Feanor-

…

The house itself takes time to build, but Caranthir enjoys it. He takes his time, constructing it to the specifications of his own mind: a large central courtyard with enough space for a pool and a garden; rooms of stone that he hauls himself on wagons from the Calacirya, marbled with perfect veins of black as dark as his own hair; warmed flagstones and clear, shining windows and thick, glowing tapestries. It is not so very large as Thargelion had been, but he doesn’t plan to invite any followers to it either; it’s a home meant for a family, a family that can grow.

A family that will never grow, because Caranthir will never be not alone.

He’d surrendered to that fate in Beleriand, over and over again, but rebirth in Aman feels rather like a slap in the face to grim, sorrowful acceptance: everyone else gets their happy endings while Caranthir subsists on bare scraps and ash. 

But what else can he do?

Luthien’s path had never been open for him, not least because of the Oath. And Caranthir isn’t Aegnor. Or, perhaps more accurately, Haleth hadn’t been Andreth: Haleth’s last words to him had not been to release him from his love, but to ensure that he’d care for her people even after her death. And of course there is the fact that Caranthir has never managed to not feel something to its full extent, even as it might have behooved him to move onwards.

In Beleriand, caring for the twins had also been important immediately after the Dagor Bragollach; and then, after the Nirnaeth, there had been such grief; and Doriath had been no easier.

He did not return to life for his brothers. That much is true. Caranthir would have been very, very happy not to see any of their faces ever again.

(This is the second of the lies that Namo tried to untangle.)

But he hadn’t been given a choice, and now he’s here, and Caranthir’s always made the best of a bad situation. He can’t quite bear living with his mother for much longer, which is why he ensured he wouldn’t have to any longer than the bare minimum, and he can’t quite bear living in an impersonal building either- not if he’s going to be building it himself- which is why he ensured that he got the proper stone and the perfect wood and the right angles, even as the work dragged onwards and onwards and onwards.

What does it matter if he sleeps in the rain until the roof is placed? What does it matter that he doesn’t put up the roof until well past all the walls are completed?

Caranthir enjoys the cold. He always has.

…

The day he finally starts on the roof, the seasons have gone damp and smothering. Not quite winter, not yet, but the promise of the snow is on the air.

Caranthir lights a brazier. He unwinds his hair from the braids he’d plaited two days earlier, and combs out all the tangles gently, with far more patience than he’s ever had for anyone except-

 _-just a few more minutes,_ he tells himself.

Just a few more minutes.

He braids it back again, this time tying it off with a band of silver. Then he takes the knife he’d used to pare the apple, and he shears off the braid with one swift cut. It does not hurt. Caranthir breathes out, and coils the braid in on itself, and then he tosses it onto the embers.

 _(You’ve much to learn from grief,_ he’d been told, once, so very many years ago, when he sneered at the short-shorn woman standing before him with burning eyes. _No, it does not bring our people back to mourn them. But it allows us to remember, for the years until the hair grows back.)_

Caranthir had not found himself capable of mourning his father without mourning his brother, too, and then Nelyo had returned from Thangorodrim, and by then mourning for Feanor had become as fraught a subject as the kingship. For someone with a tongue as heavy and unwieldy as Caranthir, the best thing had to be to remain silent lest he cause any diplomatic incidents.

He does not look away from the brazier until all of it has gone to ash. Caranthir’s head feels dizzy and light. He does not let himself move, not until well past the last embers have died, and then he realizes that he has been weeping.

 _The smoke,_ he thinks, and tries not to laugh at himself. 

Namo had never managed to pick out the lies, but Caranthir’s never managed to lie to himself half that well. He rather wishes, now, that he could.

…

A hand on his throat, cold and pitiless. 

Nobody had wondered why Caranthir, who had railed against attacking Luthien years earlier, refused to speak against Celegorm’s exhortations to attack Doriath. Nobody had asked. Nobody had bothered.

 _You killed him! You did it!_ You _did it!_

A silver, pitiless hand. Silver, pitiless eyes.

The letter, sitting on Caranthir’s bedside, is worn soft from handling. He still has not opened it.

…

Nerdanel insists on having a housewarming ceremony when Caranthir tells her that he’s finished with the house. Her eyes widen at his novel haircut, but she doesn’t say anything. He’s so grateful for that that Caranthir agrees to all of it- for bringing their family along, for inviting Finrod because of his role in getting Caranthir the expedited land, and then to inviting _all_ his first cousins, and then it isn’t so much a housewarming as it is a family get-together for the ostensible purpose of warming Caranthir’s house with too many bodies.

The majority of them come.

Aredhel and Argon insist that the tradition in Beleriand was to break something on the doorstep and shatter a vase that Aredhel had brought for that exact purpose. Caranthir thinks about the ceramic he’ll be picking out of the still-softening clay for months to come, and carefully doesn’t wince. Angrod and Eldalote offer Caranthir a light that will keep shining through the night if it’s left out in the sun, and Caranthir thanks them without mentioning how desperately difficult sleep already is for him without having a fucking star hanging over his head overnight. Maglor and Celegorm have teamed up to get him a _harp,_ which is one of those gifts that tells Caranthir that either his brothers are making fun of him or have completely forgotten who Caranthir _is._

And then, grinning sheepishly, Fingon shows up.

And behind Fingon is Maedhros.

Caranthir has kept it together thus far. Not even at the party; he’s kept it together for all these long months. He’s even had a fairly civil conversation with Dior when the other man needed some administrative tax forms explained, and Dior _killed_ Caranthir, so really, this shouldn’t be very different.

(It is.)

“Sorry we’re late, sorry we’re late,” calls Fingon, avoiding his mother’s frowning fingers and Nerdanel’s attempts at conversation adroitly enough that people don’t seem to notice the giant red shadow behind him. “Just coming through- haven’t seen- I’d like to- whoops! That was close!- yes, hi Moryo!”

“Don’t call me that,” says Caranthir reflexively.

Fingon pauses, a little, like he’s taken aback. “Er. Alright. How’s it going, Caranthir?”

“You took your time,” says Caranthir. He knows who he’s talking to. Fingon does, too, because it isn’t like Maedhros has ever kept anything from fucking _Fingon._ Rather distantly, Caranthir can feel himself flushing, and it’d be reassuring to know that he hasn’t lost this ability. But right then all he feels is a little dizzy, and calm, and _hot,_ in a way that not even freezing rain could damp down. “Didn’t you.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” says Fingon. “We were caught up in Formenos. Maedhros has wanted to fix it up for ages and then the chance came, and- well- he got injured, really, but-”

“Did he.”

“Not badly! But the healers didn’t want him going around before he could walk. And then we heard about this little project of yours, and Russo knew he wanted to be here for _that,_ and it was just easier to combine both instead of coming down twice!”

“Well,” says Caranthir nastily. “If that’s what _Russo_ wants.”

Fingon pales, finally reading the fucking room. Maedhros, hovering over Fingon’s shoulder like a scarecrow- _I want to shave his fucking head off,_ thinks Caranthir, far too violently- pales, too. 

“Didn’t you read my letter?” asks Maedhros.

“I burned it,” snarls Caranthir, and this- _this-_ is loud enough that everyone else seems to hear. 

“Moryo,” says Maedhros, very quietly, very still. “Moryo, I-”

“Don’t fucking _call me that,”_ says Caranthir again. “What did you think, that I’d be glad to see you again?”

The clearing has gone resoundingly silent.

Maedhros swallows. “Right,” he says slowly. “Right. I thought- the letter-”

“Because that’ll make things _better.”_

“I didn’t want to do this here.”

“Don’t act,” Caranthir manages to wrench out of some deep hollow in his soul. “Don’t you _dare.”_

“I thought- Namo- healing- you didn’t come back for so- so _long-”_

Caranthir stares at him, and Maedhros finally sputters to a halt.

 _Why do you think I stayed away?_ is on the tip of his tongue. 

“Get out,” he says instead dully.

Maedhros takes one step closer to him, looking like he wants to- to _embrace_ Caranthir, or- or-

-that hand, that _hand-_ silver and unyielding, bone made of steel, leather muffling the freezing touch- that fucking hand, that _fucking hand that Maedhros dares to-_

 _“Morifinwe,”_ says Feanor loudly, stepping towards them.

The knife in his hands is very small, but very sharp. Caranthir is holding it up at the perfect angle to shred Maedhros’ femoral artery, though he isn’t actually pressing it against flesh. He looks up at his eldest brother and doesn’t look away.

“You didn’t fight then,” says Maedhros slowly, grating the words out like he’s only just realized it.

“You’re not a cripple anymore,” says Caranthir flatly. 

Everyone seems to recoil as one. But Maedhros steps back, and Caranthir can breathe again, which is worth all the hatred of his family ten times over.

 _“Right,”_ says Amras. “Right! Party’s over, folks! We’ll see you when we see you.”

The others start chivvying everyone else out. Celegorm hovers about the three of them: Fingon, looking uncomfortable; Maedhros, hunched in on himself; Caranthir, about one wrong step away from bursting into flames like their father. Apparently he’s got the wild idea of calming them down.

Caranthir doesn’t need anyone to tell him to calm down. 

He’s calm. 

He’s about as calm as he ever is.

“I’m just going to go outside,” says Fingon slowly, when the room seems half empty. “Give you a bit of-”

“No,” says Maedhros.

“No, stay,” says Caranthir, a beat later, when Fingon still looks like he’ll leave. 

They all stare at him except for Maedhros, who flinches. 

“I don’t think that’s a… good idea,” says Fingon.

“I do.”

 _“Caranthir,”_ says Feanor, putting a hand on his shoulder and forcing some more space between the two of them. “Be quiet.”

Caranthir lets himself be pushed, but doesn’t soften. Feanor’s always taken every side of an argument that ensured he wouldn’t be on Caranthir’s, and it isn’t like that’s going to have changed anytime soon. Perhaps some of that shows on his face: his father pales, and releases him.

“Nelyo,” says Celegorm. “You could- what the fuck is- is this why you wouldn’t come down for his return?”

Maedhros’ jaw flexes. “I didn’t want to impose. Not on a- not on a newly returned- they’re so _sensitive-”_

“I don’t care,” says Caranthir. They all fall silent. Caranthir jerks his chin up, and faces Maedhros, and puts the knife back in his pocket like the civilized elf that he is. “I’ve got one thing to say to you, really. I spent a very long time thinking about what I wanted it to be, but in the end I decided to go with the truth.”

They all still look a little shellshocked. Well, they should: Maedhros has never had fights with anyone like this before. Not even with Caranthir. He’s always been the ickle pacifist of their family, hasn’t he? Precious Nelyo with his patience, with his beauty, with his strength and his valor and his _goodness._

If this was between Celegorm and Caranthir, Maedhros would be breaking it up with a few well-placed words. But apparently nobody else has considered a way to get Nelyo to calm down, because by the time his father’s tries to take control of the situation he’s too invested in what Caranthir’s saying to really stop it.

“I didn’t hear much in the Halls, but I heard how you killed yourself,” says Caranthir. A short, sharp laugh. Like splintered silver. “I wondered why it hadn’t happened earlier- and then I realized. You died with a Silmaril in your hand, didn’t you, you overbearing, overachieving, ass of an elf? And you didn’t even have the courtesy to make anyone’s life easy while you were at it.”

They all look more confused than anything. Well, if Caranthir’s going to be the villain of this story, he isn’t going to do it halfway. He isn’t _Maedhros,_ and by Eru is he glad for that.

“I hope it hurt,” says Caranthir flatly.

Maedhros stares at him with those awful silver eyes. Celegorm draws a breath in so sharply it sounds like he's been knifed. Their mother is frozen, one hand pressed to her mouth, and Feanor is very white, and Fingon looks like he’s halfway between horror and anger, and Curufin is gripping both the twins very tightly, and in the end it is Maglor who finally manages to wrestle Caranthir away to a room. He’s shaking, and when Caranthir finally turns to see him, Maglor’s weeping as well, face white and miserable. Caranthir remembers that Maglor had still been alive when Maedhros died, had likely seen him die. He doesn’t feel regret for telling Maedhros, but Caranthir does feel bad for saying it in front of family. 

It _would_ be very much like him, wouldn’t it? 

Maedhros kept the secret for however many Ages he’d lived, and here is Caranthir, spilling them within a year of being reborn. Well, he’d at least never claimed capable of keeping his mouth shut.

“Kano,” he says quietly.

“Don’t,” says Maglor. _“Don’t.”_

Caranthir lets himself be shoved into the room, and sits on the empty floor- he hasn’t gotten around to building furniture in this one yet- and waits.

…

It’s Curufin that comes.

He knocks on the door very politely, and lets himself inside without waiting for an answer just as impolitely.

“So,” he says. “Moryo.”

Caranthir, draped across the cold stone floor, glances at his little brother through the curtain of his hair. “Hello.”

“You were the first of us to die, you know.”

“And you were the second. Is there a point to that?”

“I died because of you.”

“Mmm. I’m sorry my death inconvenienced you so greatly,” drawls Caranthir, pulling the syllables out like taffy. 

“It wasn’t your death so much as… Namo refusing to let us see you.”

Caranthir closes his eyes. “I told him to do that.”

“Did you.”

“I walked into Doriath knowing I wouldn’t walk out, Curvo,” says Caranthir, as gently as he can manage. “If I had to deal with your shit on top of my own…”

“You could’ve come back far earlier. Your sins weren’t- even _half-_ less!- as bad as mine. Or Tyelko’s. Or Nelyo’s, and they let him come back nearly an Age before me.”

“You forget,” says Caranthir, turning to meet Curufin’s gaze. “I’m the stubborn one.”

Curufin glares at him, then kicks off his shoes and sprawls on the floor. “You didn’t want to come back?”

“Enh,” says Caranthir. “Did you?”

 _“I_ was holding onto my filial love in the Halls!”

“So was I.”

“You refused to look at him! Which I know! Because I was there! And _you weren’t!”_

Caranthir pauses. “Right,” he says. “Right. I’d forgotten that you probably dogged Atya’s footsteps like a shadow- you were never quite so stupid as you were chasing after him, were you?-”

“-you’re not the stubborn one, you’re the _annoying_ one-”

“-but I rather would’ve been happy to stay in the Halls forever,” finishes Caranthir, “if not for Namo losing his patience.”

Curufin doesn’t speak for a long moment. Then, strangled, he says, “Namo lost his patience?”

“Oh, don’t tell me that you haven’t heard the stories.”

“What- stories?”

“Maglor’s son- Elrond, I think- spoke to the Valar and begged for Maedhros to be released, which was followed by Fingon’s pleas, and then a large number of those who were in Himring, and then- ah, you get the point.” Caranthir rolls upright and starts braiding his hair. It’s too short to really hold any plaits, but its a decent method to keep his fingers busy nevertheless. “So he was reborn, and Mother pled for the Ambarussa, and your wife and son for _you,_ and apparently there was something in there about Orome favoring Celegorm enough to speak in the Halls and intercede on his behalf. I don’t know who spoke for Atya, but someone found enough love in them for that, too, didn’t they?”

“Moryo,” says Curufin. 

Caranthir laughs bitterly. “Namo got tired of me, apparently. No intercession needed. Just- fucking- boredom.”

“Carnistir,” says Curufin.

“I don’t mind- I never minded- being the one in the middle. I certainly never minded not being asked to return to life: I didn’t want to. I don’t think there was room for resentment in the Halls. But then there wasn’t room in Beleriand, either, was there? If we were divided we were slain, and it was already so difficult keeping ourselves going.”

 _“Caranthir,”_ says Curufin.

“I’m finding there’s a hell of a lot of room for resentment now, though.”

“We didn’t forget about you,” says Curufin, unsteadily.

Caranthir smiles at him, as gently as he’d done for- for _them-_ and takes no pleasure in the way that Curufin shrinks in on himself. “I don’t want your pretty lies,” he says. “You were never afraid of telling the truth before, Curvo. Don’t go getting soft on me now.”

“I don’t- I wasn’t- this isn’t me trying to tell you to-”

“If that’s all you have to say,” says Caranthir, flopping back, “then I’ll kick you out too.”

“You’re sick.”

“Mmm. Find a new line, darling.”

“No, I mean that you’re _sick,_ as in- you need healing. Irmo- Lorien- is a safe enough-”

“Namo’s couldn’t fix me, so now you want me to try his brother?” Caranthir snorts. “No thank you.”

Curufin throws himself forwards, so he’s sprawled over Caranthir and his elbow is pressing against Caranthir’s diaphragm painfully. He’d used to do this in Aman to get attention: he’d always been catlike in his love for touches, never caring for reciprocation but offering it extensively when he felt like it. It’d stopped in Beleriand. A hell of a lot of things had stopped in Beleriand, to the point that Caranthir hadn’t considered missing them. But now the feeling sits and blooms in Caranthir, just as sharp and inconsiderate as Curufin’s pointy elbow.

Caranthir closes his eyes and goes limp.

“Answer one question for me,” says Curufin. “One question, and I’ll leave you alone. I’ll get our parents to leave you alone, too.”

Caranthir doesn’t speak, but he remains very still; Curufin takes it as acquiescence.

“Why’d you cut your hair, Moryo?”

The one question which Caranthir cannot answer, because he does not dare to touch the seething morass of grief. Trust Curufin to find that, when nobody else- not even Maedhros, not even a Maedhros mad with grief and searching for the tender spots of Caranthir’s fea- has found it. Ten thousand years and more, and still it rests in his mind like a fresh wound. Of course he hasn’t shown it to anyone: of course he never will. He is the only one left to remember. He will not cheapen that.

This is his wound, and his grief, and his joy, too, is it not?

Caranthir bucks. Curufin hadn’t been expecting it, and he rolls just enough for Caranthir to lever his feet flat on the ground and buck again, and the many months of hewing stone and wood have left him with enough muscles to properly put up a fight with Curufin’s forge-strength. With the element of surprise on his side Caranthir manages to pin him down.

“Stay,” he grunts, and it’s Curufin’s turn to go limp with surprise. “Stay. If that’s what you want. I won’t stop you.”

“Moryo,” says Curufin, muffled and face grinding into the marble. “Well. It might not be just me.”

Caranthir sighs, letting go of his little brother. “However many of you. And your wives, and your sons, too; I won’t keep you from them. This is a big enough house, if you don’t mind sleeping on stone.”

“It’s just me and Tyelko.” Curufin stretches a shoulder out, eyeing Caranthir’s arms suspiciously. “Tyelpe went back to Tirion with Amme and Atya; he didn’t want to stay.”

“And Maglor for Maedhros, I suppose.”

“With Amrod keeping Amme calm and Amras keeping everyone else from panicking.”

“You divvied yourselves up quickly.”

Curufin grins at him crookedly. “The jobs lent themselves. Maglor and Maedhros only makes sense; the twins have spent the most time in Tirion. And Tyelko and I can be irredeemably annoying when we put our minds to it.”

Caranthir laughs, and is surprised at himself for it. “I’d like to see it!”

…

The next morning, Caranthir meets Curufin’s bleary morning gaze with a hoe. Celegorm, slightly more awake- or with better warning- is up on his feet before Caranthir can smash the shovel into the wooden table a foot from his nose.

“What the fuck,” says Curufin.

Caranthir grins at him. “You can’t be irredeemably annoying if I’m not around to see it, can you?”

“What the _fuck.”_

“I’m planting oranges. For which I’ll be outside.”

“And you want help?” asks Celegorm dubiously.

Caranthir shrugs. “Fuck off if you want.” He’ll be glad for the quiet, but like hell is he going to hide from fucking _Curufin._ “I’ll see you tonight.”

“You won’t be back for lunch?” asks Celegorm, startled.

The truth is that he isn’t hungry; Caranthir hasn’t gotten back any of his appetite after being reborn. He hadn’t had much of one after the Nirnaeth either, but by then their stores had been hit badly enough that nobody was bothered by people eating too little so long as they could keep doing their work. The truth is also that Caranthir’s stomach hurts if he eats too much, and he doesn’t have much patience left for keeping up the appearances he’d forced himself to do in their parents’ homes.

“I’ll be fine,” says Caranthir gruffly, and walks outside before his face shows what he’s too tired to explain.

…

He doesn’t _like_ oranges.

But he still remembers her- _her_ face- when he gave her some of the fruit: the wide eyes, the sudden, sharp joy, bright as Arien’s first rise. Oranges had never been able to bloom in Thargelion, but Caranthir had managed to coax fruit out of one of the dwarven caravans, and that’s the memory that stands out the greatest for him of his-

_Don't think about it._

The plants he grows now are from the seeds imported from the southern reaches of Harad, and will need a great amount of aid not to wither on this windblown hillside. But Caranthir has spent months planning this, down to the finest detail, and- more importantly- he has the space for it. The trees, once grown, will break the worst of the wind for the hillside; perhaps he will get the scent through the front door in the right season.

Celegorm joins him, but they get into a long, bellowing fight over taking a break at noon- Celegorm’s always enjoyed napping, the lazy little cockroach- and eventually Caranthir’s left alone to pat the furrows in the land closed over dry seeds, pour a handful of water to turn earth into mud, flatten, and move on. It’s repetitive work, and not entirely meaningful, but the heat of the day fades into a colder evening and Caranthir enjoys it too much to stop until he runs out of the seeds.

There are other merchants from whom he can borrow the seeds, but for now this is enough. Caranthir rises and breathes in the air: it knifes through his chest, but he doesn’t mind it. One lungful. Two. Three. Only then, regretfully, does he turn around to return home.

…

Curufin joins him the next day and they work in silence after Caranthir points out what needs to be done. He doesn’t complain, but he hands over a rind of dry, hard bread that he’d apparently shoved into his pocket while Caranthir was distracted. Caranthir chews on it for the full day, and even then loses a proper third of it to crumbs in the fields. Curufin notices: he glares at Caranthir over his mug of spiked tea through their whole dinner.

“You never used to be this bull-headed.”

“No?” asks Caranthir wryly. “Only one of us was reprimanded for breaking Tirion’s peace, and it wasn’t you, Curvo.”

Celegorm snorts. “You’re still so bloody proud of something that- if we’re being honest!- was nothing but an architectural failure.”

“Ah, but it was a _meaningful_ failure, was it not?” Caranthir waves a hand wildly, slopping some of the wine in his cup onto his fingers. He ignores it. “And then we got to rebuild the full quarter much better. Turgon asked me for advice himself. I checked in Tirion: they’ve kept the same structure. And really- a couple broken bones for a plan that lasts longer than four Ages? It’s impressive.”

“You were the rebellious one,” agrees Curufin wearily. “The _number_ of times you’d fight with Atar…”

 _“Curvo,”_ says Celegorm, and Curufin winces, falling silent obediently.

Suspiciously obediently.

Caranthir narrows his eyes at them.

“What?”

Celegorm rolls his eyes, flattening out on the cushions. 

Curufin shrugs. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“No, no- what about Atar?”

“It isn’t worth it,” drawls Celegorm.

Caranthir glances at him. “Hiding your face by the fire’s a coward’s way out, Tyelko.”

“Yes, well, I get to be cowardly nowadays, don’t I? No Valar around to impress, like in Himlad.”

“Curvo,” says Caranthir, abandoning the idea of prodding Celegorm into spilling. There are some moods in which Celegorm just will not budge; this is one of them. “Come _on._ What was it about?”

“I just- it’s about- _well,”_ says Curufin. “You made Atar’s life difficult, didn’t you?”

“I made everyone’s life difficult,” replies Caranthir, shrugging.

“Yes,” says Curufin, looking exhausted. “Elaborate plots, and secrets, and all these little schemes that are supposed to nudge us into the perfect place for you to get- what? A little more gold in your coffers?”

Caranthir frowns. “What the fuck, Curvo.”

“Yeah,” says Celegorm, rolling over so he’s watching them. His voice is tense, straining to be light but never quite managing it. “What the _fuck,_ Curvo?”

“I’m just _saying,”_ he says. “If you’d just tell us what the hell your problem is, we can fix it and return to-”

“-home,” finishes Caranthir.

“Yes.”

“You’re an idiot,” rumbles Celegorm, eyes fixed to Caranthir. “Honestly-”

Caranthir doesn’t look away from Curufin. “You’re welcome to leave.”

“While you look like you’re halfway to walking into a grave?” demands Curufin. “Don’t be ridiculous. If you’d just _tell_ us why you’ve decided to get mad at Nelyo, it’d make everyone so much calmer. And so much- less worried.”

“Not my fault you’ve got shit for brains, Curvo.”

Curufin bristles. _“I’m_ the stupid one?”

“All of you were, really,” says Caranthir flatly. “The answer’s staring you right in the fucking face. And yeah: it isn’t my fault that none of you asked. So. Let’s stop pretending this is some- some convoluted game that’s been going on for fucking Ages, yeah? I didn’t ask for you to come here. I’m not going to die because I miss one fucking meal. Or because I accidentally brained myself with marble. Or because I set myself on fire. Either get your head out of your ass or fuck _off.”_

He stands up, and goes to the kitchen, and methodically demolishes the tea set that fucking Galadriel got him until it’s nothing more than dust under his heels.

Then he goes to his room, only he hauls himself through the window to rest on the roof, where he lets the knife-sharp wind tear at his clothes until he feels almost as cold as he should be. Only then, trembling and tired, does he drop back into his room.

Celegorm’s on the bed, and doesn’t look surprised to see him.

Caranthir jumps high enough that he nearly smashes his skull open on the lintel. 

“What the _fuck,_ Tyelko,” he snarls, the hard-won calm thawing all too quickly. “Some privacy’s too much to ask for?”

“Not when you disappear. Curufin’s gone out in that storm looking for you.” Celegorm’s lips twitch. “He thought he’d run you out of your home.”

“Because _that’s_ his- what? Demarcation of right and wrong?”

“Curvo likes houses. Doesn’t like seeing people not being at home in them.”

“Finrod,” says Caranthir tiredly, more to end the conversation than anything else.

Celegorm’s brows arch. “Nargothrond was a miscalculation. For all of us.”

“Well. Glad you’ve healed enough to admit that much.”

“I’ve healed a hell of a lot more. Want a list of all of my regrets?”

“Not really.”

“One of them’s watching you die. Pretty high up there, actually.”

Caranthir sighs, disgusted, and sits on the bed, as far as he can get from Celegorm without appearing like he’s halfway to crawling out of his skin. “I didn’t come back to life so I could hear how much my dying traumatized you.”

“You fucking _bastard,”_ says Celegorm, and lunges, and where Caranthir can wrestle Curufin into submission if he’s got surprise on his side, there’s no way with Celegorm who’s just _strong_ in a way that Caranthir has never been. “I’m gonna- fucking- I’m trying to _help you-_ this is-”

“I don’t want your help!” says Caranthir, loud and louder. “I don’t fucking want it! I never wanted it, I didn’t- I don’t _want it!”_

Celegorm goes very still, plastered to Caranthir from head- where he’s breathing into Caranthir’s neck, annoyingly warm- to fucking toe, where his shoes are _pointy._

Then he lets go, and when he steps away, he looks satisfied. Too satisfied.

“It isn’t up to you any longer, though.”

Caranthir bears his teeth back. “You think I can’t kick you out?”

“We told Curvo not to talk about Atar with you,” says Celegorm abruptly. “I know you- I know you’ve got your issues with him. With them.”

“You don’t know _anything,”_ snarls Caranthir. “You- you-”

“I know it wasn’t easy.”

There is something so hot it feels like a sun, sitting in his chest, bright and hot and _terrifying._ “Fuck off.”

“I don’t think I will, actually,” says Celegorm, folding his arms over his chest. “Was that when it started, do you think? Your- hatred. Of all of us.”

“If I didn’t hate you before, I do now.”

“You walked away from us easily,” says Celegorm.

“I _died_ for those damned Silmarils!”

“Yes, something changed before Doriath,” he says thoughtfully. “I don’t understand what. You didn’t lose anyone in the Nirnaeth. Except for Ulfang, but you weren’t very close to him to begin with.”

Caranthir doesn’t know what his expression shows. All he can feel is the fire: licking at his fingers. The blood, bitter on his tongue. The terror. The grief. The overwhelming, all-consuming grief. He’d stood on a hillside and he’d watched as- as-

And then _Nelyo-_

“After the Nirnaeth,” muses Celegorm. “Well, I remember Nelyo, of course, and how desperate Kano was, and how _mad_ I was, and how angry Curvo was, and how wild the twins were- but not you. That’s strange, isn’t it? It’s like you’re a- a hole. Like someone’s cut you out of my memory, only they haven’t, because you were _there,_ you were just- silent. Just fucking silent.”

Fire. Fire. And Amras’ arms, hauling him away from a standard of brown and green and gold, a standard melting to ash in Caranthir’s palms-

“The pieces are in front of us,” says Celegorm gently, all the more awful for the soft edge. “That’s what you said. That we never asked. Curvo said you walked into Doriath knowing you wouldn’t walk out. And you’re pissed at Nelyo. You know what I remember about him? You know what I remember about him after the Nirnaeth?”

“Stop,” croaks Caranthir.

But when have any of them ever stopped? When have any of them ever understood what stopping even _meant?_

“I thought he’d never stand up ever again,” murmurs Celegorm. “I thought he’d fade before our eyes. But then one day he got so _angry-”_

_“-stop-”_

“-and he never really stopped, to hear Kano tell it, but there was something there that made him angry, and nobody else knows about it- the rest of us were walking on fucking eggshells around him- and Nelyo isn’t talking, so- so. _So._ Tell me, Moryo. What made _Nelyo_ so angry?”

Caranthir stares up at his brother, and he lets the hatred take him.

“Get out,” he says lowly.

Celegorm stares at him, and doesn’t move.

“Get _out,”_ snarls Caranthir again. “I don’t _care,_ I don’t want to care. I was fine without you, you know that? I haven’t got that awful codependence thing you and the others have. I was _fine,_ I was _happy,_ I was _good,_ and then- and then-”

He gets up, and unsheathes the sword hanging over the wall, and tells Celegorm, very calmly- or not calmly, not at all, but about as calmly as he can get now- “I will kill you if you don’t leave.”

“I’d like to see you try,” says Celegorm.

“No, you won’t,” says Caranthir.

Perhaps it’s something in the lines of his face, or his voice; Celegorm backs down. His eyes glitter in the dim firelight, and then he nods, and he slips out of the room. Caranthir clutches that sword in his hands, hard enough to leave bruises on his palms, and doesn’t move until he feels a little less likely to break apart into pieces smaller than the dust of that fucking tea set.

…

The next morning, there’s a beautifully painted ceramic service set in pride of place on the table. There are dark shadows under Curufin’s eyes. He guzzles coffee and touches the delicate pots with all the gentleness of a crafter’s newest creation. Beside him, Celegorm’s chair is empty.

Caranthir escapes to the fields before Curufin sees him.

…

Twins ran in both their family lines. Haleth had been a twin, and Caranthir’s brothers had been the first twins in all of Arda. It’s not a surprise that Haleth has two children in her belly: the surprise is that they both turn out to be girls.

…

Caranthir is not their father because he _cannot_ be their father: he cannot claim them, he cannot be with them, he cannot do anything more than love them.

In fell Beleriand, it is not enough. In Mandos’ silent, pitiless mercy, it is not enough. In the glaring sunlight of Valinor, it is not enough.

…

(Of course it isn’t enough. 

When has Caranthir ever been enough?)

…

 _I didn’t want this,_ he thinks miserably, and lets his fingers dig into the earth. Caranthir will have to re-do some of the furrows later, but for now he just- he just-

_I didn’t want any of this._

_I would’ve been happy with just-_

“Everything I’ve ever wanted has become as ash,” says Caranthir quietly. “How do you go on? How can you go on? How did _you?”_

He’s asking the not-yet born saplings that remind him of his daughters, long-slain in long-drowned Beleriand. Caranthir has done many things to be ashamed of in his life, but nothing more pathetic than _this,_ he thinks. Nothing quite so pitiful as this.

_Carnistir Morifinwe._

He looks up, and sees a grey-swathed individual. A wisp of something that could be hair peeks out of the veils, and Caranthir realizes who it is. He’d become very adept at hiding from her in Namo’s halls, but it’s too late to run now.

“Lady Nienna.”

_You are yet unhealed._

“I don’t need you to weep for me,” says Caranthir. He looks away, to the skies. “I don’t need- or want- your pity.”

_Is there not much to pity?_

“Yes,” says Caranthir bluntly. “But not from you.”

_You think I don’t understand?_

“What have you lost?” Caranthir tilts his head up. “What have any of you lost?”

_A brother. A king._

“I lost that and more.” He laughs. “Far more.”

_The one time Namo tried to dig into your fea, he hurt more than he healed. There are not many that clutch onto their mistakes so tightly as you: not even your brothers, not even your father. But there was no malice in the darkness of your fea. Only grief, and more grief- and that is one thing that my brother has never understood._

“So you convinced him to let me out?”

_You’d received as much healing from Mandos’ halls as you ever would. There was nothing to gain from staying there for you._

“Except for silence,” says Caranthir flatly. “Except for- for _choice._ You could have asked! You should have asked before throwing me out here! Here, where- I have to keep _choosing,_ all these fucking _choices_ that they’ll never have, none of them, this life they’ll never see, this life that they’ve always been more fucking _worthy_ of- and- and- and I’m here, I’m doing it, I’m trying, but they’re not letting me move on, are they! None of them! It’s always around the corner like a snake waiting to strike!”

Nienna moves closer to him, and then she kisses him on the forehead, lips freezing against his skin. Her tears burn where they fall to his neck, a freezing little burn, and cause little ice crystals on the wool across his shoulders.

 _Ea has more and greater things than you have ever dreamed, Feanorian,_ she says gently. _There is a higher mercy than you can imagine. The Light Imperishable might be hidden, but never smothered; it may dim, it may flicker, but it shall never die._

“I don’t want your- your _metaphors,”_ says Caranthir coldly. 

_Have hope,_ says Nienna. _From the ashes shall spring something grander still. Have hope, Caranthir Morifinwe! Have hope, for this world is not quite so painful as you have imagined. Already the hands you’ve clutched about your fea loosen; already you are closer to healing than ever in my brother’s halls. Have hope, and have strength, and have faith._

“In _what?”_

 _In hope,_ says Nienna. _Have faith in hope, and in triumph. Morgoth was not victorious._

“Neither were we!”

 _That is the difference your brothers understood,_ murmurs Nienna, fading away into the thin air. Her words linger in the air, gentle as a summer breeze, just as bitter. _Triumph is not always measured in victory. There are not always singular paths to joy._

Caranthir can feel a scream clawing up his throat. He doesn’t let it out. He swallows, and swallows, and swallows, large gasps of breath that leave him trembling and wet and prone on the ground. Singular paths to joy? Joy? _Joy?_ Here he is, Caranthir, amidst the pathetic sprouts of a memorial to the family he will never know, and she speaks to him of joy! Of triumph! As if there is anything left for Caranthir to grasp that will not taste of flame and dust and grief-

He closes his eyes and time dips away from him, and the next thing he knows, there is a hand stroking him, scalp to nape, scalp to nape. The hand is cool and dry, and as rhythmic as if a metronome is guiding its actions.

“Moryo,” says Curufin. “Moryo. Come on. I’m going to pick you up now, and you aren’t going to kick me, alright? Moryo. Darling. Come on. Nienna isn’t easy- I _told_ you to go to Irmo, didn’t I? But you always were fucking stubborn. Alright.” A hand slides under his arms, and Caranthir doesn’t fight when Curufin lifts him. “Now. I’ll drag you if that’s what you want, but that’ll tear up your shins. Moryo. Stay with me now. Moryo-”

“-I hear you,” Caranthir grates out.

“Good,” says Curufin, and sounds relieved. “One foot in front of the other. You didn’t go to the far fields, thank everything holy. The house isn’t too far. I’ll wash the mud off- it must be itchy. Once we get inside. Left foot, Moryo, left foot. Then the right. Left now. Yes.”

He keeps up the litany, mindless babble washing over Caranthir. When they finally enter, Curufin forces Caranthir to sit down on the low, backless sofa, and returns with a bowl of steaming water and a cloth. 

“Cold water,” grunts Caranthir. “I need- not hot.”

Curufin eyes him, and then nods and returns with another bowl of water. He mixes them so the water is lukewarm more than freezing, but Caranthir accepts the gentle cleaning without any more objections. When it’s over, he tips forward and buries his head in Curufin’s neck. Curufin freezes: but his hand comes up automatically, and starts to stroke his hair again.

Of course it would. He’s a father. 

_A father,_ thinks Caranthir, and this time the tears that come are unstoppable and hot and damp, but not the kind that wrench sobs out of his chest. _A father. He is a father. And I am-_

“There are things I’ve never told anyone,” he whispers.

Curufin’s hand stills for the barest of seconds before continuing the motion. “We all have secrets.”

“Not like this.”

“Bad ones?”

“Big ones.”

“Like…”

“Big.”

“Moryo.” Curufin flexes, and then he shifts, pulling Caranthir’s weight so that both of them sit tangled on the floor, Curufin clutching Caranthir closer than before. “Is that why you’re so mad at Nelyo?”

“This is- older than that.” Caranthir swallows, opens his mouth, swallows again. “Older.”

“Very well. How old?”

“Before the Dagor Bragollach.”

“Much before?”

“After the Dagor Aglareb.”

“Should I narrow it down to the decade now?” asks Curufin dryly. “I will, Moryo, if you want me to.” He pauses, waiting for an answer, and then he says, voice softening, “Do you want me to stop calling you that?”

And at least this is an easy answer: Caranthir shrugs. The people he’ll allow to call him that are limited, now, but there _are_ people. He hadn’t said anything much in Beleriand- no, in Beleriand they all tended to stay away from father-names unless in private, and Caranthir tended to avoid getting into private scenarios as much as possible- and so the freshest memory that Caranthir has is of Maedhros, eyes blazing, hatred like a living flame around him, sneering that name while Caranthir trembles on his knees; and the sharper memory, the one that he’d clutched close in the Halls, is of Haleth, holding him, murmuring that name, and then- and then-

 _Don’t think about it,_ he tells himself, but the wound is so fresh, the scars shredded open by Nienna, that the thought itself is not enough. 

Caranthir shudders, and bites back the fresh wave of tears ruthlessly, but it’s too late. His jaw is quivering, and his shoulders are twitching, and Curufin’s too close to hide any of it.

“Moryo,” says Curufin. “Moryo- what’s- what’s _wrong-”_

“-no,” he dredges out, from some deep hole in his belly. “No. I didn’t- I don’t- I can’t- I- I- _no.”_

“Caranthir,” says Curufin sharply. “You’re not coherent.”

“How can you understand? How can any of you understand? You’re- you’ve got _everything,_ and- and here I am.” He laughs, wildly, so high his throat hurts. Curufin stares at him, hands gone slack. “Here I am.”

“Understand… what?”

Caranthir forces himself to roll away from his brother. Forces himself to his feet, one hand on the lintel, weary down to the bitter dregs of his soul. 

“Go back to your home,” says Caranthir quietly. Curufin goes to speak, flushing angrily, and Caranthir shakes his head. “There’s nothing for you here, Curvo. I mean it. Talk to Menielwa. Kiss Tyelpe for me.” He nearly gags at that line: the tears threaten to stop his throat. But Caranthir’s the stubborn one of the Feanorians. He doesn’t falter. “There’s nothing you’ll get here.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, only stumbles away to his rooms. Curls up on the cold bed, and doesn’t weep, doesn’t sleep, barely breathes. When he wakes in the morning, Curufin’s bed is empty. Caranthir doesn’t know if what he feels is relief, but it’s not too far off.

He lets the mud squish between his toes as he walks into the fields, and Caranthir starts planting some of the other seeds: hardier ones, meant to shield the orange orchards; nutritious ones, meant to provide some food for the house; fragrant ones, pressed into his hands by the vendors who wished to engender some loyalty. Caranthir snorts. Grieving and worn and bitter he might be, but he’s never before cut a bad deal because of things so nebulous as _brand loyalty,_ and he won’t be starting now.

But Caranthir has the seeds now, and he won’t let them go to waste. The shovel is sharp and heavy in his hand, and the sun is hot on his neck, and the wind is cool. 

Caranthir is alone. 

…

Haleth had braided her hair with silver ribbons in lieu of a crown. Caranthir had cut them from the spare surcoat in his luggage, and he’d regretted tearing apart one of Amras’ gifts for this Secondborn right up until he saw how they shone amidst the mud-splattered, stone-shattered dwellings of the Haladin. 

He hadn’t fallen in love that night, but it was the beginning.

…

Hileth had worn those same ribbons for the few months she reigned at the end of Haleth’s life, before her cousin took over. She’d worn those ribbons when she died in the Dagor Bragollach. Hilin had refused to let her sister’s corpse burn with Caranthir’s ribbons. When Caranthir finally came to the Haladin’s camp, Hilin had approached him and offered him the ribbons, and he’d kept one for himself and tied the other to her braid.

Hileth’s descendant wore that same ribbon as he burned on the field of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Caranthir’s ribbon would have burned with his own corpse. All that is left now is ash: all that is left now is the memory of ash.

It isn’t _enough._

…

 _Moryo,_ Haleth had called him when he’d explained all of his names- the Quenya and the Sindarin both. It hadn’t been in the fashion of the Noldor; her r’s were breathy, delicate where the rest of her wasn’t, a stark contrast to the guttural pronunciation of his brothers. She’d shuddered, head thrown back, hair shorn short around her scalp, and she’d come undone around him, and Caranthir had followed after her, helpless with pleasure, and he’d never heard his name the same way again.

 _Moryo,_ Haleth had said, had screamed, and he’d held their children in his arms, slick with blood, trembling with joy.

 _Moryo,_ Haleth had said, full of affection, when he burst in, horse foaming at the mouth, Caranthir half a breath from foaming himself. _Moryo._ She’d held out a hand, and Caranthir had clutched it, and she’d smiled at him one last time, and she’d died.

…

Silver, pitiless eyes.

A silver, pitiless hand.

A voice: pitiless. Scraped like tarnished silver.

 _Get up,_ Moryo. _I’m not going to kill you. Get_ up, _I’m not letting you die so easily._

Caranthir: on his knees, trembling. Bruised. He’d wanted to die, and he’d thought he’d ensured it. It should’ve worked. But of course he wouldn’t be given even _this,_ not even the shadow of comfort, not even the welcome embrace of _death-_

And then, later, Celegorm, shouting. Doriath. Ash and rain. Flame. The moonless night. A steel sword in his hand; a silver-haired elf in front of him. One parry, two, three- he is the stronger one, the more skilled one. He can win this duel. He does not want to. It does not take much to slip in the blood. It does not take much to let the blade tear into his throat.

Namo. 

_Keep them from me. Keep them all from me, I cannot bear- I will not manage-_

And for endless Ages, the quiet calm of Mandos’ halls.

But now: now, there is _this._

…

Caranthir sleeps in the fields, tracing silver ribbons in the spaces between stars.

...

He opens his eyes to see his mother.

“Curvo threw the towel in?” he asks through a dry mouth.

“He’s inside,” says Nerdanel archly. “I told him to give you some space. He didn’t want me to come here- he only wanted advice. But there are things that cannot be taught.” Her lips quirk. “And Atarinke has never been the most… understanding of your brothers.”

Caranthir laughs. The most understanding of them is Maedhros, who Caranthir cannot currently stand the sight of. The next most understanding is likely Amrod, and then Maglor, and then Amras, and then-

-well, Curufin’s at the bottom of that list. His only possible competition is Celegorm, who’s also the only person who’d bothered to stay with Caranthir. 

“No,” he says. “No, he isn’t.”

“Why are you sleeping out here, Carnistir?” asks Nerdanel, sounding wryly amused.

“I like the cold,” says Caranthir. It’s the truth: not much embellishment necessary. “And- the stars. I was looking at them and just- fell asleep.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you mourning a wife.” She sighs and gets to her feet, holding out a hand to drag Caranthir up too. 

Caranthir shrugs. Perhaps it’s the exhaustion, or the grief, or just the cold morning air. Perhaps Nienna’s words have made him more than a little mad.

“What’s to say I’m not?” he asks.

“You don’t have a bond,” says Nerdanel quizzically. “I did check, darling. I thought- well, it made sense, of a sort, if you’d had a wife in Thargelion who died. You kept going out so often after your Return; I assumed you were searching for her.” She shrugs, and hauls him up. “But you’ve no bond, and then I found out that you spent much of that time getting the permits for this house.”

He laughs. “If you’d lived in Beleriand, I might not have managed to keep any of it a secret.”

“As if I would’ve let you!” says Nerdanel. “Oh, darling. What could’ve been so deep a secret that you cannot say it even now?”

“It isn’t that I don’t- want to,” says Caranthir, groping for the words. He feels rather like he’s stumbling around in the dark, drunk and bruised. “It’s that- I spent so long, Amme, holding onto them. It’s- I don’t know how to explain it. There are no words to say it.”

“Them,” says Nerdanel softly.

Caranthir swallows, and leans against her. Thinks of half a lie, even if he’s certain she won’t believe it. “I didn’t mention the horses I was breeding to anyone.”

“This isn’t about horseflesh, love.”

“No,” says Caranthir. He closes his eyes. “No, it isn’t.”

“Very well. If you haven’t the words, let me think on it, yes? You can nod or shake your head. Simpler than explaining.”

Caranthir bows his head. They’re walking around the orchard- not entering the house, not yet. The sun is high, but the wind carries the cool edge of winter’s beginning. Neither of them shiver.

“It begins after the Dagor Aglareb. Before the Dagor Bragollach. Which means you were in Thargelion, weren’t you? Away from everyone else.”

He nods.

“Something happens in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Something even you hadn’t expected.”

He nods.

“Something happens to _them?”_

He pauses, and then nods. Shrugs. Nods again.

“Something like that, then,” says Nerdanel. “Very well. You were shattered by that loss. Of course, Maedhros was shattered as well, but everyone seemed to expect it of him; you hadn’t told anyone of your secret, and so none of them knew to care for you.”

Caranthir turns to look at her, hands clenching on thin air. “Don’t blame them for _that,”_ he says. “There’s enough that they actually did. I- I hid it all, Amme. As best I could. As deep as I could. It isn’t their fault that they didn’t see what I didn’t-”

“Moryo,” says Nerdanel, placing a hand on his cheek. “You cannot tell _me,_ now, after Ages of healing in Mandos’ halls. How could you have told your brothers then?”

“It was still my choice. Not another’s.”

“Of course not. But this isn’t about blame. This is about- understanding, yes? It’s about understanding what happened so we can live with it.”

“I’m here,” says Caranthir tiredly. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Do you call this living, darling?”

“What else?”

“Surviving,” says Nerdanel sadly. 

She lets go of his cheek, but loops a hand over his elbow and guides him back home. Caranthir lets her. It’s a bit warmer inside the walls, and there are a few more touches of home that he’d left behind in Tirion; odd gadgets strewn over the table, a badly-stitched tapestry spread over the floor like a carpet. A knife he remembers stealing from the kitchens and shoving up his sleeve, more for the assurance of safety than because of any threat.

“You packed all this?”

“There’s more,” says Nerdanel dryly. “Curufin would only let me take what I could carry on a horse.”

“There was no reason for _that,”_ says Caranthir, appalled. “What did he think, that I’d jump off the mountain if he wasn’t here to stop me?”

“Yes,” says Curufin.

Caranthir rolls his eyes as he turns to look at his brother, hanging about the doorway. Feanor is there, too: Curufin’s shadow, Curufin’s ghost. Caranthir tries not to feel resentful.

“Well. I’m glad to prove that wrong, at least.”

“You’re an idiot,” Curufin replies. “What did you think? That I’d watch you have a fucking breakdown and then walk out? I might have kicked Finrod out of Nargothrond, but I never told Orodreth not to cry!”

“Truly, Curvo, you’re _such_ a beacon of generosity.”

“At least I didn’t keep my shame hidden for centuries,” says Curufin, eyes flashing. “Unlike someone else.”

For a moment he doesn’t know what Curufin means. Then he understands, and it’s only Nerdanel’s strength that keeps Caranthir from punching Curufin.

“Shame,” he snarls, and goes limp in his mother’s grip. Curufin- infuriatingly- hasn’t flinched. Caranthir rather thinks he would’ve let Caranthir punch him if Nerdanel let him go. It doesn’t make sense, but then Curufin’s always been really fucking unreadable. _“Shame?_ I didn’t- I was never _ashamed,_ they were- they were- I was- I was _afraid,_ you bastard, I was fucking terrified, wasn’t I?”

Curufin glides forward, shoulders hunching forwards like he’s getting ready to properly spear a rabbit caught in a trap. “Afraid of what, Caranthir?” 

_“You,”_ he says, and catches the quiet flinch of Curufin’s shoulders.

And of course: of course. If Caranthir hadn’t done this exact thing himself, he might not have recognized it. But Caranthir _has_ done it. He’d done it with gritted teeth and a mind that was more than a little insane, when the stakes were much higher and even death felt like more of a surrender than a release.

If Curufin wants Caranthir to hate him, he’ll have to try harder than that.

“And the others,” he says roughly, ignoring the way Curufin goes very still. “I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t want to. I’d seen- I’d seen what happened to people who got in the way of the Oath.”

“And I was the most fervent in my faith,” murmurs Curufin.

“Curufinwe,” says Feanor warningly. 

Caranthir ignores him. Ignores Curufin’s little jabs, too, and straightens to his full height.

Caranthir had inherited that from Nerdanel. He’s the second-tallest of his brothers: just half a handspan less than Maedhros. Celegorm is bulkier, and Maglor _looks_ taller because of how he carries himself, but Caranthir’s always prided himself on being able to look down his nose at Maglor in an argument.

“I’ve never been afraid of you, Curvo, and I’m not starting now.” Caranthir snorts at the way Curufin’s face freezes. “Stop trying to get me to punch you. You think I don’t see what you’re doing?”

Curufin’s face might as well be carved out of granite. “What am I doing.”

“I’m not going to fade now, am I?”

“You looked like you were half in the grave,” says Curufin lowly. “Don’t pretend that you’re fine, don’t you _dare-”_

“-you’re not going to keep me alive by getting me to hate you, little brother,” says Caranthir, and steps forwards, and kisses Curufin on his forehead. “Some gifts are too cruel for anyone. I’d know.”

 _“How?”_ asks Nerdanel.

Caranthir pulls away, half-flinching. But Curufin’s watching him, and their father’s eyes, behind him, are very wide, like he’s realizing something.

This is why Caranthir hates his family. They’re all so fucking _prescient._

“What did you do, Moryo?” asks Curufin gently. 

“Nothing that did not need doing,” says Caranthir. He swallows, thinks about how bitterly he’d hated Maedhros by the end. “What- what did I do to you?”

The only way to handle Curufin is to put him on the defensive. He’s always been awful at shielding himself; it’d been how he died in Doriath. The memory feels offensively close now, with Caranthir staring at Curufin, seeing the stricken, bitter rage flood those dear features like fire burning all reason and logic to ash.

“You,” he says, very, very quietly, “died.”

And then Curufin stalks away.

…

Later, Caranthir goes to the forge. Props a hip on a nearby table, watches Curufin’s shoulders hunch over whatever he’s pounding with a hammer, and waits. It’s a good thing that he chose to take a cold water bath before this: if Caranthir had been anywhere near his usual levels of patience, he might have actually punched Curufin instead of waiting for his brother to come to him.

“You- you shouldn’t have died,” he says finally. 

Caranthir settles back. “No?”

“I should’ve- I thought- you were always so-” Curufin rakes a hand through his hair, and finally turns around, glaring. “I’m sorry. That’s what I’m trying to say. I shouldn’t have been there. I remember that swordfight- I distracted you. You died because of me.”

Something crawls up Caranthir’s throat, uncomfortable and stinging, like a thousand thorned-footed insect. 

“I would’ve slipped anyways,” he says. Shrugs at Curufin’s incredulous look. “Curvo. I wasn’t planning on coming back. I’d set it all up- the records, where my people should go. Our stores.” They hadn’t lost anyone to starvation for more than a decade after Caranthir’s death, which is one of the accomplishments he’s proudest of. “It wasn’t Dior. I mean- I could’ve defeated him earlier. You distracted me, but- but I was planning on it anyhow. Or- not planning- but- I didn’t-”

“You said-” Curufin grips the stool beneath the desk and hauls it out without looking away from Caranthir. He’s gone uncomfortably white. “-you said that before. That you wouldn’t survive Doriath. You were _planning_ it?”

“Better to die in battle than by biting through my wrists. I thought Kano could- you know- use it to inspire our people. Drive us onwards. I didn’t think both you and Tyelko would die, too, but-”

 _“-no,”_ says Curufin fiercely. “No. What does that even mean! Why did you want to die!”

 _My daughters,_ thinks Caranthir, and opens his mouth, but the words will not come. His tongue sits in his mouth, flat and heavy as a stone.

“I thought you- you hated me!”

“For what?”

“For letting you die!”

“Why?”

Curufin stares at him. “You refused to see us. In Mandos’ halls.”

“It wasn’t personal, Curvo.” Caranthir rubs a hand over his face. “None of it was personal.”

“Wasn’t it?” asks Curufin slowly. He cocks his head to the side. Frowns. “Not even- well, it sounds like it’s personal with Nelyo.”

“Nelyo’s is different,” warns Caranthir. 

“Yes. About that-”

“-stop changing the subject!”

“What’s there to change?” demands Curufin, eyes glittering. “You don’t blame me for your death. You decided to kill yourself. You should be in Lorien. You hate our eldest brother. Well: I’m glad you don’t blame me, and you’re alive now even if you died awfully, and I can’t send you to Lorien without strapping you to a horse and taking you myself, which I think might well hurt you more than anything else. So. I’m handling what I can handle.”

“To be fair,” sulks Caranthir, “I hate all of you.”

“Mmm,” says Curufin. “Nelyo’s is different, I think.”

“Where did Tyelko go?” asks Caranthir suddenly.

Curufin’s face hardens. “Never you mind.”

“You keep your secrets, Curvo. I’ll keep mine.”

“If only,” says Curufin, “it were that simple.”

_You killed him. You killed him!_

A hand on his throat, a voice he’d once loved; eyes: those damned _eyes-_

“Nothing’s ever simple,” croaks Caranthir. “And I’m sick of being interrogated wherever I go.”

“Moryo-”

“He wanted to die,” says Caranthir, roughly, and Curufin falls silent. He knows this: of course he knows this. He was there for it. But what Curufin doesn’t know- cannot know- is what Caranthir did. “He wanted to die after Fingon rescued him.”

“Yes,” says Curufin, clipped.

He doesn’t like to remember it. None of them do. Maedhros survived not because of any of them, but rather because of Fingon. Or so the stories go, now: star-crossed lovers from two rival houses, reunited after decades apart. It’s a simpler narrative.

It isn’t the truth. 

Or: it isn’t the entire truth.

“He chose to live because he hated Morgoth.”

Curufin goes very, very still. His entire body hunches, a little, like he’s trying to keep his middle from bruising. 

“After the Nirnaeth he didn’t believe we could defeat Morgoth.”

“Moryo,” whispers Curufin.

Caranthir looks at him very, very steadily. “I gave him something to hate.”

 _“Fuck,”_ says Curufin. 

“You wanted to know,” says Caranthir. He gets up. Musters a nod, even as his shoulders feel like they’re carved of iron. “It isn’t his fault. I know that. In my head. But he didn’t come for so long, Curvo. I thought- I waited for- oh, I would’ve forgiven all of it if he’d just- been there.”

“You thought he hated you,” says Curufin. “You thought- oh, great sodding Valar. It makes sense. You thought he hated you, didn’t you? Even after you were reborn, because the idiot didn’t show up. And then he shows up like that- _oh._ No wonder you went insane.”

Caranthir snorts. “Well. Not only that. I might have- pushed. Before Doriath.”

Caranthir had pushed, and Maedhros had not been in the mood to bend. Even now, Caranthir isn’t certain if he’s furious at Maedhros for coming so close to killing him, or for stopping before the actual act. It would’ve been easier. And what’s a little more blood on Maedhros’ bloody hand?

“He didn’t react well. I didn’t… fight back.”

“Because Nelyo was one-handed?”

“Because I wanted him to kill me.”

“But he didn’t,” says Curufin slowly.

“No,” says Caranthir, and bares his teeth. “But Tyelko talked about Doriath.”

“And you didn’t say anything,” he whispers.

Caranthir shrugs. Gets up. “Say anything? My throat was fucking ruined. I couldn’t have said anything if I wanted to. But… I didn’t. I was ready to walk into Doriath if darling Nelyo wouldn’t kill me, and let Dior do the job. So: that’s the truth of it.”

“But not the whole of it,” says Curufin. “What happened in the Nirnaeth, Moryo?”

 _“Don’t,”_ says Caranthir. “Don’t. Don’t push your fucking luck.”

He stalks out. 

…

Other people say that spilling secrets feel like a loosening of a burden. Caranthir doesn’t feel lighter: he just feels vaguely sick. He’s lived so long with the pit of his secrets, with the depth of his hatred, that any purging feels like hunger. 

And hunger, left long enough, is nothing but nausea.

Fine: _fine._

One thing is one thing. Maedhros might have even told them, eventually. And it isn’t like Caranthir likes keeping secrets. But like hell is he going to talk to his brothers- his _brothers,_ who can never understand, who abandoned life and love and everything for their father’s gems, who left behind children and wives without a second thought- about his daughters. Like hell will he let their memory be tarnished with the weight of his leaden tongue. Like hell is Caranthir going to _talk_ about them to his family.

…

His parents worry about him. 

So does Curufin.

The irritation of it buzzes in his teeth, but Caranthir has bigger things on his mind now: his orchards are growing apace, lit and lended by his song and his care. The trees grow at different rates because they react differently to the songs that he sings to them; there are a few that prefer the humming of an old lullaby from Thargelion and have grown in height if not in girth: the spindly, narrow height of teenagers, too tall for their bones.

He’s a little concerned that they’re dependent upon him- upon his song, upon his coaxing. But they’re not utterly defenseless, and he hasn’t pushed them to grow much beyond their usual speed. It’s just a delicate time for them. The leaves have already taken on the scent of the oranges, delicate and tart. 

The song he sings is not his own: it’s of the Haladin, hummed by Haleth as she cradled Hilin to her chest. Haleth’s voice had been ruined by orcs: a lucky knife when she fought to drag her brother’s corpse behind her barricades. Perhaps she could’ve saved it if she’d let it heal, but Haleth hadn’t had the time. She’d been up on the ramparts the next day, holding her brother’s shield, waving her father’s sword, leading with her own hoarse, rasping voice.

She’d coughed blood for a week after Caranthir saved her. Caranthir had feared for her life: he’d expended as much energy as he could spare in healing her throat, and the relief to know that she’d not die from a nicked throat had driven him to offer her people succor in Thargelion. 

Caranthir has heard finer songs by far; he’s been treated to Maglor’s compositions from since almost before he could remember. But Haleth’s songs had felt as rough-hewn as the stones ringing Helevorn, none of the sweet purity of Maglor or Finrod, and it’d felt like coming _home:_ in a world where Caranthir’d resigned himself to never having it again.

It’s the same song that he sings now.

His voice is not so raspy as Haleth’s; his is higher, soft as a thread of silk. But silk is one of those things that is so powerful, too: ounce for ounce it’s stronger than steel. Caranthir lets that knowledge buoy him high. He lets his anger, his grief, his loss, his bitterness out into that song, and the trees grow higher for it.

…

Caranthir spends hours trimming the lower branches and burning them in a brazier in his room, choking on smoke and grief and the faint, sweet scent of burnt oranges.

…

The Feanorians were not welcome in Haladin lands. Whenever Caranthir went, he went alone and he went in disguise. The only reason he was tolerated was for his closeness to Haleth, and then to his- to Hilin, to Hileth. And, yes, he’d offered to save them- he’d offered all of them so _much-_ but Haleth had rejected it and went west instead, hadn’t she, and so Caranthir had to be content with the offal of their relationship. 

He hadn’t offered again.

But maybe- maybe after the Dagor Bragollach- they’d lost so _much-_ surely then, surely, if he’d asked- they’d had Haleth’s nephew by then as their chief, he was much humbler-

If he’d asked, perhaps the world would have been different.

(But sweet little Hileth was dead. Caranthir was not her father, but the twist in his chest- the rend of his grief-

-oh, how can anyone expect a man to look at his daughter’s ashes and remain reasonable?)

…

A thousand regrets. A thousand failures.

Caranthir is not a father. That is the truth, at the end of all things: he is not a father. He has never had the chance to be one. All he has is the memory of silver ribbons and one daughter dead amid fire; another daughter slaughtered in a battle scarce a decade later; and their _heirs-_

He cannot be a father, for if he is one then the failures shall consume him with dark, jagged teeth.

…

“You never had much love for gardening before,” says Feanor.

Caranthir glances over his shoulder. “Hello, Atar.” Feanor settles on the mud, legs splaying out. Caranthir’s lips twitch. “Amil isn’t going to like that.”

“Oh, Nerdanel doesn’t wash the clothes anymore. There are some lovely stones behind our house- I don’t think you’ve seen them. They’re perfect washing boards.” Feanor lifts an eyebrow. “Whenever I feel irritated at your uncle, I go out back. It’s quite… calming.”

“I sit in the rain,” says Caranthir. “To calm down.”

“That does not seem healthy.”

“We can’t get colds.”

“Health is not just the absence of illness, love.”

Caranthir closes his eyes. Leans back in the soil. “Well,” he says roughly. This is something he needs to say, no matter how bitter the words are on his tongue. “I’m sorry.”

A hand wraps around his ankle, but it’s cool and dry; Caranthir doesn’t flinch.

“For what?”

“For- not seeing you. In the Halls.”

“It was frightening,” says Feanor mildly. “I knew what all the others were up to. But you were dead, and even then Namo would not tell me how you were. No matter how I begged.” He pauses, and his hand strokes Caranthir’s ankle, gentle and firm as a band of steel. “But I should apologize to you, too, should I not?”

Caranthir opens his eyes. His father is backlit by the sun, and the leaves of his orange trees halo him: green and gold, lovely as the Helevorn at the height of summer. 

“For what?” returns Caranthir.

He cannot make out the details of his father’s face. But-

“I left the Halls without searching for you,” murmurs Feanor. “I should have. I would have- but the- I wished for life more. It hurt, not to have a hroa.” A pause: the briefest of pauses. “Did it not hurt you, Morifinwe?”

“No,” whispers Caranthir. “I was- happy. There.”

“In the Halls?” asks Feanor incredulously.

“Yes,” says Caranthir, miserable and hot and wanting nothing more than to crawl into a hole in the ground. “It was- distant. The world was distant. I suppose that must have been painful for you, but it… soothed me. And now it’s all just- here. So close.”

“You know, I saw everyone else.”

“Hm?”

“In the tapestries,” says Feanor, thoughtful and meditative. Not confrontational. Some part of Caranthir relaxes at the sound; he’s dozed off to it too many times not to, even as another part of him prickles with wariness. “I saw all of you quite often before the Dagor Aglareb: Namo often showed me your pain, and preferred to show it. But in the Long Peace… well, I saw few enough people; I remember wishing for something to _happen._ And then it did, in quite a spectacular fashion.”

“I hope you regretted that,” says Caranthir flatly.

“More than you can imagine.” His father’s voice doesn’t shift register, remaining smooth and patient as ever. It’s vaguely suspicious; Feanor’s never had much patience for Caranthir, whose temper is so similar to Feanor’s own but whose interests are so divergent. “I wanted to stop being bored: I never wanted such agony. I spent quite a long time learning more about Arafinwe’s children than I’d ever imagined- those two who came to the Halls, I mean. But then- I did see you on the tapestries. Or not you, Moryo: the others. All six of them. And I kept seeing them, but not _you,_ not until the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.”

“I’m glad to see where I was,” says Caranthir venomously, “on your list of priorities.” He pulls his leg away, sharply, and rolls. “What was that apology for? So you could sleep better at night?”

Feanor’s face flushes, but he doesn’t reply. His eyes are strangely bright, like he’s too busy being thoughtful.

“I have a theory,” he says.

“Like I _care,”_ snarls Caranthir.

“I did not see anything during the Long Peace because there was- happiness. You were all happy. And then I saw my sons, again, during and after the Dagor Bragollach, but not you. Because you were _still_ happy, Morifinwe, during that time: something happened in the Nirnaeth. Something that broke you.”

Caranthir stares at him, and then he laughs. “Is that what you learned?” he asks. “That I was happy, and then not? I would’ve told you that without all this ridiculous prattle!”

“Mori-”

_“Caranthir.”_

“Caranthir, then. Do you think I did not ask? That I did not demand to see you?”

“You’ve always loved Curufin the best of us,” says Caranthir. “I don’t expect that to change. I don’t understand it- I don’t understand you, how you could-” he shakes his head, the wound so old and still so raw it leaves him breathless. He’s not thinking any longer: he’s a piece of driftwood, cast upon a river, not stopping and unstoppable. “-and I don’t understand _Grandfather_ either, how he chose you over Fingolfin- how he could- I don’t _understand,_ how can you love one of them more than the other? I didn’t even _know-_ I never even got to know my own daughters, and I still- I couldn’t have chosen between- I don’t understand! How could you? How _could_ you?”

Feanor stares back at him, frankly, eyes wide.

Caranthir rakes a hand through his hair. Through his hair, shorn short- shorn grief-short- and sees his father note the movement.

Slowly, Feanor opens his mouth.

“Daughters?” he asks, almost soundless.

Caranthir blinks at him. Thinks about what he’s said: the truth of it. The promise he’d given himself, never to speak of his daughters, shattered as so much bone beneath a balrog’s fury. He has no daughters, he has no children, he is no father, he is nothing but Caranthir Feanorian, killer and monster and failure and-

“Daughters?” asks Feanor again, sharply.

“No,” says Caranthir.

“No?”

“No.”

“You _said-”_

“I was wrong,” he grates out.

Feanor steps closer to him. Puts a hand on his arm, and then tilts Caranthir’s chin down gently, peering into his eyes.

“No,” he says gently. “You were not.”

Caranthir shudders. “I hold no such bonds.”

“And still you weep,” murmurs Feanor. “Oh, Caranthir. I hold no bond with my mother, but my mourning for her was never lesser than the love I held for my father.”

“You never knew your mother.”

“But you knew your daughters?”

“I have no daughters.”

“Not a lie,” says Feanor slowly. “But also not the full truth, I think.”

“Namo himself did not see,” whispers Caranthir. “None of them. Not Namo, not Vaire, not my brothers- do you understand now? I loved them with everything I had, and the best thing I could do was forget them. The best thing I could ever do was stay _away.”_

Neither of them died for his sins. 

But Hileth’s grandson- oh, he had died for Caranthir, hadn’t he? It had been Maedhros’ Union, and it had been Caranthir’s own allies’ treason, and it had been his blood: pouring over a hillside as Amras dragged Caranthir away, staining the earth as Caranthir continued to live.

“Daughters,” whispers Feanor. His hand wraps around Caranthir, ever-warm; one hand on the back of Caranthir’s neck, another with fingers in the notches of his spine. “They have not returned to life?”

“It does not matter,” says Caranthir. “It cannot matter.”

“Son,” begins Feanor.

He rips away. He cannot take this gentle kindness. Not now, not like this. Not when the only thing that Caranthir can deserve is a knife between his ribs.

“They will never return,” he gasps. “Never. I will never see them again. They have passed beyond the reach of the Valar.”

Feanor pales. 

“Never,” says Caranthir, wretchedly. 

There is something permanent in words. They all know this. Their Oath dogged their feet for centuries; there is blood on their hands that will never be washed away because of it. There is a grief imperishable and everlasting in Caranthir: a grief that he had not let himself confront for so long. He finds, now, that the grief is not quite so large as a mountain; it is not so bitter as bile. It is familiar: a hand on his wrist with Haleth’s weight; wind on his neck as he’d shorn off his hair after the Bragollach; ribbons on his tunics, silver as the crown that Haleth never wore.

 _Never,_ he thinks. 

(This is the third of the lies that Namo tried to unravel.)

How is he to survive? How is anyone to survive this? 

Their like will never walk again on the same earth upon which Caranthir lives. Haleth, Hilin, Hileth; he will never know them. And that is the difference between Caranthir and his family: for they have found those that they love in Aman, and they have learned to recover for it; but he never will.

Never. 

“You loved a mortal,” whispers Feanor.

“She liked the oranges,” says Caranthir. “They both- all of them did. The color. The taste. I can’t bear it. But it was-”

“Moryo,” breathes Feanor. “Oh- love- didn’t you ask Namo? Perhaps he could have-”

Caranthir shakes his head. Laughs: _Feanor_ is telling _him_ to ask the Valar! How the world has changed! Scrubs a hand over his face. He is not weeping: he feels too empty for tears now, anyhow. 

“I swore never to speak of them,” he says, not quite dull and not quite angry. “I swore- to keep them safe. To keep their memory safe. And now…” The smile he turns towards his father is bitter enough to make Feanor wince. “Well! I’ve forsworn all else, have I not? What is one more failure?”

“You forswore _one other thing,”_ says Feanor sharply. “And what do you mean, keep their memory safe? Haven’t you-” he jogs forwards to keep up with Caranthir, who’s started stalking towards his home, “-haven’t you been doing that? Why would telling us tarnish their memory?”

“Telling you,” says Caranthir coldly, halting. “Telling you- _you,_ who demanded Curufin release his wife from his bond because she refused to join us in Formenos- that would have been stupidity! And the rest- they’d have asked for allies, for aid, for succor; they’d have ridden off into Haladin lands bearing Feanorian stars and Feanorian red, and demanded fealty! I wasn’t _there_ when Hileth died because I was busy ensuring my own people survived! I wasn’t there when Hilin died after the Dagor Bragollach! I kept away! I did my duty, and I did my best! And I will not have them _mocked,_ I will not have them belittled, I will not have them _spoken of_ to people who cannot understand their griefs or their prides or their loves, I will not have it!”

Feanor stares at him. Caranthir is faintly aware that he graduated from sneering statements to expansive bellowing, but then his father’s never really known him to be a calm individual, has he? This must feel familiar.

“You think we would mock you?”

“I’ve never understood you before,” he bites out. “Why would I now?”

Feanor lets him leave. Caranthir doesn’t return home: he goes into the woods, and does not weep: only walks, and walks, and walks, lets the wind take his grief and carry it into the leaves to settle as gentle as silver dew. 

His children. His daughters. 

They are all dead, and they will always be dead, and that is truer now than ever before, and Caranthir- who has lived with that knowledge for so fucking _long-_ Caranthir does not know how to live with it now. Caranthir does not know how to survive it, now that it is out in the open.

…

He does not know if he wants to survive it.

…

The days pass in a blur. Caranthir’s never before had nothing to do; during the Years of the Trees, he’d been very busy trying to live up to the immense shadows of his family, and in Beleriand Caranthir had overseen one of the larger realms of the Noldor, which meant that his time was, quite literally, not his own, and when he died, he floated aimlessly, working to suppress things which he now knows is a futile business.

But now there are only trees, and silver moonlight and his grief, newly sharpened and realized, and Caranthir has never grieved _silently_ before but he finds that he can do it now. He finds that his silence- the sound that comes from no songs, the breathless gap that makes his heart twist deep in his chest- is a more effective mourning than all the songs that Maglor’s ever sung before.

Time passes. 

Caranthir lets it, and does not let himself rush the slow corrosion of his long-overdue grief.

…

His family knows where he is, of course; he doubts they’d have left him alone if they hadn’t known he’d be safe. But both Caranthir and Nerdanel are very skilled at osanwe, and all it takes him is a knock on Nerdanel’s mind every few weeks to reassure her that- even if he isn’t well- he’s alive, and that seems to satisfy them enough to keep away.

Caranthir’s literally had a terse, meaningless conversation with Nerdanel just a fortnight previous- _I’m alive, no broken bones, got the knife you put in the trunk last month, will talk again after the first storm-_ which is why he isn’t expecting the shock of red hair moving beneath the branches of his forest.

It isn’t his forest, but nobody else lives here, and everybody seems to be respecting his desire for space. The red hair could belong to one of the Avari, of course, but not that height. Caranthir scowls. If they’re going to be annoying, then he’ll be annoying back.

Nerdanel is just slightly taller than him, and strong from thousands of years hauling stone. When Caranthir drops onto her, she shouts and rolls, and he rolls, too, so he doesn’t break his face, and he says, loudly, “I _told_ you that I’m fi-”

The words stutter to a halt when he turns and realizes that it isn’t Nerdanel.

“Hello, Caranthir,” says Maedhros, and smiles at him tiredly. “Can we talk?”

…

They end up sitting on a flat stone that curves up to form a kind of backrest, at the edge of the treeline. There are stormclouds in the distance: the first rains, probably. They’re usually light and warm, a prelude to the tempests that will sweep down from the Pelori after summer. It should reach them in another two days. For now, all it means is that the stars are not visible.

“You wanted to talk,” says Caranthir, sneaking a glance over to Maedhros.

The setting sun paints Maedhros’ face as red as his hair. “Yes. I had… Atar told us. Or- Atar told Amme, and she told Curvo, who told Tyelko, who told Kano, who told me. About your daughters.”

 _“Well,”_ says Caranthir. “He’s never been able to keep a secret, has he?”

“No,” says Maedhros. He doesn’t touch Caranthir: he is, in fact, very carefully not touching any part of Caranthir. “None of us are, to be fair. You knew all of my tortures from Thangorodrim within a week. And it wasn’t like Curufin or Celegorm kept their mistakes at Nargothrond quiet either.”

“Just me, then,” he says bitterly.

“And Amme,” says Maedhros, unflappable as ever. “She didn’t tell anyone that she planned to leave until it happened. And you always were very much like her.”

“Except for the temper.”

“Yes, well, not all of us can be saints.”

“Why are you here?” asks Caranthir sharply.

“Tyelko spent quite a long time trying to convince me to come. I… wasn’t sure if doing so would be better than staying away. And then I heard about your daughters.”

“And that convinced you that I wanted to have the conversation?”

“And then,” he says firmly, “a hell of a lot of what you’d done started making sense.”

Caranthir flops backwards, disgruntled. Breaks off a piece of lembas- baked by Nerdanel, who’s always flavored it with a spicy kind of flavor that nobody else has ever managed to replicate- and hands it to Maedhros. He hasn’t eaten in a while; the muscles that he grew from building his own home have withered into nothingness. 

Maedhros takes it and nibbles on it, delicate as a perching bird.

“Really,” says Caranthir, after a long pause. “Like what?”

“Like why you’d want me to kill you,” says Maedhros flatly. “And also- well- your story wasn’t very good, was it? There were so _many_ holes, Moryo.” He pauses at Caranthir’s flinch, and says, apologetically, “It isn’t my fault that you’ve got such an awful amilesse for shortening. Carno? Leave aside that I’d prefer not to call you a meat; it’s too close to Curvo for comfort.”

“We should just call _him_ Rinke,” says Caranthir venomously.

Maedhros laughs. It prickles down Caranthir’s spine: made worse for its familiarity, not better.

“If either of us called him little he’d throw a fit.” Maedhros finishes his lembas, and peers through his hair at Caranthir. “You frightened him, you know? Him and Tyelko both.”

“As if they don’t deserve it.”

“I think it’s more about what you were doing to yourself than what your worry did to them, but I can see why you’d mistake the two.”

“I’m allergic to silver. Particularly on tongues.”

“No,” says Maedhros patiently. “You’re not.”

Caranthir makes a face, but snorts reluctantly. It’s an old memory, but a good one: of all of his brothers, Caranthir had had the fewest excuses not to go into the forge. He’d worked around this by lying to Feanor about a heretofore unknown allergy to silver. After that, Caranthir had only doubled down instead of coming clean; it was in _Formenos_ that Feanor had found out the actual truth.

“Valar,” mumbles Caranthir. “Fine. _Fine._ You know how I kept the lie up for so long?” Maedhros hums, peering up at the sky, and Caranthir forces himself onwards. “I made him mad. Got Atar so angry about something else that he couldn’t think about silver, or forging, or- all the ways that I was disappointing him.” He exhales, drooping over himself. “You don’t need a story to be good if it’s what everyone expects of you.”

“Maglor found the actual books later,” Maedhros tells him. “After you died. He didn’t tell me the truth until- later. After Sirion.” He blinks, as if to wipe away something caught in his eyes. “I owe you an apology, Moryo.”

“For _what?”_

“For not coming. After you were reborn. And for not looking for you in the Halls.” He pauses, then says, “For not finding you, really. We all searched for you- but you weren’t to be found.”

Caranthir swallows. “If we’re apologizing- I wish I hadn’t done it. After the Nirnaeth, I was- I kept trying to die. But the Oath wouldn’t let me.”

“And nobody noticed,” murmurs Maedhros.

“I used you then, too,” confesses Caranthir. “They were all so worried- I could keep going. It was like- for the first time- everything was _clear_ in my head. My fear didn’t matter. I knew I’d die in Beleriand, and all I could choose was the how, not anything else. And I knew I wouldn’t let it be at Morgoth’s hand; I couldn’t bear it. But if my death could… could have motivated you, or motivated our people- I kept remembering Fingolfin- and hatred’s so _easy,_ Nelyo, really. I was so tired by then.”

“You are perfectly awful at apologies.”

Caranthir laughs, even as the laughter scrapes something tender in his chest. “Really!”

_“Moryo.”_

“You said that to me, then,” he says, and Maedhros flinches. “You had me beaten half to death and you couldn’t finish the job, and then you said that _name_ like you still loved me.”

Maedhros rakes a hand through his hair. “I loved Father after he burned those boats, didn’t I?”

“My betrayal was far more complete.”

“Your betrayal wasn’t even _real.”_

“But you thought it was!”

“Are you apologizing to me,” asks Maedhros, after taking a deep breath, “or are you asking for one from me?”

Caranthir stares at him, and then he drops his face into his hands. “Fine. _Fine._ I’m sorry! I am, Nelyo. I loved you after the Nirnaeth, and I loved you after you nearly killed me, and I loved you so much that I nearly blinded myself after watching you jump into that fire, and I’ll love you until past the Dagor Dagorath and the death of all we know. I’ve hurt you: I hurt you, impossibly, awfully. I did it purposely. I know all of that. I wouldn’t do it again, not for anything in the world. I’m _sorry.”_

After a moment, Maedhros hand- the left one, the one that’s always been flesh- comes down on Caranthir’s shoulder. It means that Maedhros needs to twist uncomfortably so he can hold Caranthir without slipping off the rock, but he doesn’t complain.

“That’s a better apology than you gave to Father for that silver allergy story,” says Maedhros.

“You deserve at least that much,” mumbles Caranthir.

“It’s- I just- well.”

“Spit it _out.”_

“I’m not sure you can blind someone without a hroa.”

“Valar,” growls Caranthir, but he doesn’t tear away from Maedhros’ grip. “It’s a _metaphor,_ you sour piece of donkey _ass!”_

Maedhros lets go, falling back against the stone, laughing. “Ai, Moryo, you know how long it’s been since I heard your insults!”

Caranthir’s lips twitch against his will, and then he leans forward and hauls Maedhros onto his lap properly, so his brother’s shoulders are heavy on his thighs and Caranthir’s own legs are sprawled out easier on the stone.

“I didn’t burn your letter,” he says finally, into the easy silence.

Maedhros’ hands are pressed against the stone, hard enough to blanch the knuckles. “You should have. It wasn’t… It wasn’t so much as half an apology.”

“It’s probably still in my room.”

“I’m glad for this,” says Maedhros softly. “For us. Here. To have heard it from you- to have you hear it from me. I know it mustn’t have been easy for you, Moryo. Not for… a long time.”

“I’d forgotten a lot,” says Caranthir lowly, and Maedhros’ eyes sweep up to meet his: silver as the stars, as Telperion, as Haleth’s crownless, be-ribboned brow. “How- how Curvo keeps falling on people when he wants to embrace them. He’d stopped in Beleriand, and I didn’t even notice. Or Kano’s… songs. They’re annoying, but you know when he calls the dew? In the morning?”

“Everything’s very cold and shining and beautiful, if you ignore how your head’s been throbbing from music played through the night.”

“Tyelko snores again, did you know?”

 _“Does_ he?” asks Maedhros delightedly.

Caranthir nods. Lets a hand, finally, touch Maedhros’ right wrist: the soft give of it. This is not pitiless silver. This is not Beleriand. This is not desperation, or rage, or grief; it is just them: Nelyo and Moryo. Two brothers, reuniting. Reuniting after so, so long.

“And you,” he finishes hoarsely, ignoring how painfully still Maedhros has gone, and the shine in his eyes- the want in them, to have something more than grief in the shape of all their mistakes. “I missed you, too. How brave you were, right up until the end. How kind you were, right up until the end. How- how fucking bright you were, Nelyo, you were _everything_ to us.” The words are so painful: they feel like knives. Caranthir buries his face in Maedhros’ hair, and he says, muffled, pathetic, small, “You made us laugh.”

Maedhros’ hand comes up to card through Caranthir’s own hair, and he doesn’t flinch: he cannot now; he knows that hand, he _knows_ it, and he cannot fear it now that he knows Maedhros, now that he has his brother here in front of him again, warm and alive and laughing. They sit like that, the two of them: intertwined, hair pulled taut between each other, gentle and demanding and gentle again in turn, until long past when the sun goes down.

…

Later, Maedhros says, quietly, “Tell me about them. Your family.”

Caranthir, half-asleep, blinks. “My family?”

“Father said that you were worried about- mockery.” 

Maedhros has always had the ability to look earnest even in the strangest of situations. Caranthir reminds himself of that fact. But looking down at his brother- it’s impossible to think that he’ll treat the stories as anything but the dearest of truths. 

“I don’t know how to talk about it.”

“You loved them, didn’t you?” Maedhros’ thumb sweeps over Caranthir’s wrist, slow, soothing. “What did they like?”

“Oranges,” Caranthir murmurs after a beat. “Well- Hileth did. And so did her mother. But not Hilin. Hileth was the elder by minutes. She was the only one to have children- three sons- and two of them survived to adulthood. Hilin was… quieter.” He pauses. “She loved stories. Not songs. Stories. All of the ones I could ever come up with- always the same ones. She used to beg me everytime I went to their camp, right up until she could have recited it back word for word. Intonation for intonation.”

“You’re not half-bad at telling tales,” says Maedhros. The corner of his mouth kicks up. “And you’re not one for much praise, either. She must have been impressive.”

“Her favorite story was of Grandfather.”

Maedhros’ hand stills briefly. “Which story of him?”

“The one of him- in Formenos. When we all knew that Morgoth was coming, and he remained behind to give us more time.” Caranthir slips into the story, as he’s told so many times to little Hilin: “The darkness was as a cloud, was as a wave, was as an avalanche. And before it stood Finwe, clad in silver and scarlet, with a sword gleaming like the last vestiges of Telperion lived on in his steel.”

“Oh my,” says Maedhros softly. “That is beautiful, Moryo. Certainly more beautiful than I remember it.”

Caranthir nods. Tips his head back, so he’s looking back at the sky: it’s so dark now. The clouds have covered over the stars. “You cannot tell a child of that terror. You pray- so hard, so, _so,_ hard- that they never know it. Ai, Maedhros, Hileth died in the Dagor Bragollach- by accident- but Hilin died after that, when Tol Sirion fell.”

“The Haladin were south of there, weren’t they? It must have been a shock. They survived the first ravages of the Dagor Bragollach, and then to see that army…”

“They survived that, too,” says Caranthir wearily. “They survived because of Hilin. Her nephew told me of her valor: scouts told them of the coming orcs, but they had too many infirm to move swift enough. And so Hilin bade them move as quickly as possible into the woods, and not to return to open dwellings ever after, and then she went down to the river vale where the orcs must come through, and though there was an army of blooded orcs bearing down upon her, she held them back for the full night: long enough to save the rest of her people.”

Finwe had stood in the doorway of Formenos to defy Morgoth, and Hilin had stood in the sole gap of Brethil to defy a thousand ravenous orcs. Finwe had collapsed but given his grandsons time enough to flee, and Hilin had died but given her people time enough to escape. Finwe would never return to life under the Valar’s ordinances, and Hilin had never come to Mandos’ Halls in the first place.

“Oh, Moryo,” whispers Maedhros. 

“I wore a silver ribbon,” murmurs Caranthir. “After- well, after Hileth died. Do you remember that?”

“Yes. Your hair was too short for it. Pityo made quite a lot of fun of you for it, didn’t he?”

“I gave it to Haleth,” says Caranthir. “And she wore it until she died, before she gave it to Hileth. When they burned her body Hilin saved the ribbons, and she gave one to me and wore the other until the day she died. And I wore it until the day I died. I had no rings, and no names, and no- _nothing._ But I had that. I had that. And now all I have is memory.”

Maedhros’ hands are suddenly tight in Caranthir’s hair. “Memory is not nothing,” he says fiercely.

“It’s so little, Nelyo,” whispers Caranthir. Tears prick at his eyes, but he swallows them. “It’s so fucking little.”

“Moryo,” says Maedhros firmly, and sits up, so that Caranthir has to look up at him: look up, at Maedhros’ glorious hair, at his beautiful face. “Listen to me. Memory is not like your money, do you understand? Memory does not _cheapen_ as more people hear of it. There is no inflation rate on memory, and no method of diluting it.” Caranthir makes a choked sound, and Maedhros grips his chin tightly, furiously. “Look at me! Listen! You cannot erase a memory! Nobody can take it from you. _Nobody._ Not Sauron, not Morgoth, not Namo, not _anyone._ Your memories are yours. Do you think that telling me of your daughters means that you shall remember them less? It means only that I shall remember them _more,_ you absolute _fool_ of a brother!”

“When we sent you here, Nelyo,” says another voice, “did we not say that you should go because you’ve a better temper than me?”

The terrifying look on Maedhros’ face fades into a deep exasperation, and he releases him, and Caranthir sees- through the tears standing in his eyes- that it’s Maglor, stepping out of the trees awkwardly. 

…

“He deserved it,” Maedhros calls down to Maglor, but his hands are gentle when he draws Caranthir to his feet and guides him down the outcrop so they can greet Maglor properly. After a moment, he sees the reproachful look in Maglor’s eyes- and, likely, how pathetic Caranthir looks right now. “Oh, stop pretending that you haven’t been provoking me since you fell onto me! You could’ve broken my neck and I didn’t even complain!”

Maglor is cool and damp, likely from wandering through the forest. It’s welcome against the hot flush of Caranthir’s neck as they embrace.

“Did you really try to break Nelyo’s neck?” he asks, when Caranthir pulls away.

The quiet coolness helps: Caranthir doesn’t feel like he’ll tear apart any longer. He huffs a laugh. “If I’d tried to break Nelyo’s neck,” he says, sneaking a look over his shoulder, “it’d be broken.”

“Just a misunderstanding, then,” says Maglor airily, and drags them back to the stone. Caranthir exchanges an amused look with Maedhros- Maglor’s always been very good at optimism, which can be infuriating or amusing or inspiring, or, depending upon the situation, all three at once. “Sit down! Sit down. We’ll have to head back soon enough- Amrod is making that awful fish pie of his, and he’ll pout if neither of you even taste it- but I found you earlier than I thought I would. The upside of Nelyo shouting loud enough to reach Hyarmentir, I suppose.”

“Amrod’s here?” asks Caranthir, startled.

Maglor arches a brow at Maedhros, who shrugs, unruffled. “Nelyo was supposed to tell you that we’re all here. Except for Tyelko, but he’s on his way. He should be here by tonight, if the weather holds.”

“I don’t remember opening my home to you,” says Caranthir wryly. 

“When have any of us ever needed an invitation?” retorts Maglor. “If I were you, I’d complain more about Nelyo’s Valar-damned voice.”

“Was I that loud?” asks Maedhros mildly.

“My eardrums nearly ruptured,” sniffs Maglor. “I don’t even want to know what it did to Moryo. He was much closer, wasn’t he?”

“Not all of us have your snake-ears,” comments Caranthir. 

Maglor makes an irritated sound, but his face is soft when he turns back to Caranthir. “Tyelko told me about your daughters,” he says. “I’m sorry, Moryo. None of us so much as suspected. If we had…”

“Would anything be different?”

“Yes.” Maglor looks surprised to have been asked. “I was so worried about Nelyo back then- I’d have known to think about you, too. And we might have helped them after the Dagor Bragollach, or even after the Nirnaeth, if you wanted it. We were already patrolling for Amon Ereb; a few more a bit further afield wouldn’t have been impossible.”

“Easy enough to say after you’ve forgotten our troop numbers, Kano,” drawls Maedhros.

Maglor rolls his eyes. “Sit _down,_ you long-hipped horse. I’ll break my neck looking at you.”

“I don’t think you missed my insults at all,” says Caranthir to Maedhros, who laughs. 

“Speaking of which,” Maedhros says, turning to Maglor. “Moryo’s been telling me of how he misses your dawn-melodies.”

“Now _that_ is easily fixed,” says Maglor.

He hums a quiet, even chord, and then his voice is off like a burbling little stream: cheerful, chattering, fresh as snowmelt on a flushed face. The stone is cool and hard beneath Caranthir’s spine, and the grass is delightfully springy, and though the clouds do not part- though he cannot see the stars, only the darkness- he feels something like peace, thick in his veins like molasses.

Then Maedhros reaches out, and tips his chin down: from the stars to the earth, the newly-dewed ground, glowing silver under the faint light of the moon.

Caranthir makes a sound, low and wretched, and Maglor’s song falters. Maedhros steps away and says something to Maglor, quietly, and returns, wrapping himself about Caranthir. A moment later Maglor takes up a new song: not quite so cheerful, not quite so ephemeral. 

Before Caranthir’s eyes, the dew spirals into the air, glittering as so many diamonds. Rain starts to fall, gentle and almost warm, and lightning flashes in the clouds, lending light to the entire clearing: and Maglor _must_ have been waiting for that, because his song crescendos at the perfect beat, enhanced by the thunder, glorified by the lightning, and for that moment- for just that moment- the water glitters and flashes, like the silver ribbons that Caranthir once cut from his shirt to crown the finest queen he ever knew.

…

“Thank you,” says Caranthir, roughly, when they’re almost at the house.

Maglor looks at him shrewdly. “Call it an apology, Moryo, not a gift. For being your elder brother and not realizing how desperately you needed help.”

“You were looking after Nelyo.”

“And I was the one to tell Nelyo to look at the books. That you were acting strange.”

“I expected you to.”

“It doesn’t change the fact that I did it,” says Maglor quietly. “Nelyo was hurt, and Tyelko was terrified, and I was the one who should’ve seen it. Seen you. That _is_ on me, no matter what anyone says.”

“Is a song supposed to fix that?” inquires Maedhros.

Caranthir laughs at Maglor’s appalled face. “He’s been like that since I fell on him! I thought it was the new, reborn Maedhros.”

“No, it’s saved for you, Moryo,” says Maglor. “And you! I’ll tell Fingon about you, don’t think I won’t!” He turns back to Caranthir and makes a face. “He’s got a terrible sense of humor now, though. The one good thing Sauron did was make him sour enough to keep from laughing.”

Maedhros snorts. “Yes, well, Beleriand was all heroism and valor and rage, wasn’t it? Not much room for the smaller things in life. I haven’t been threatened with losing a limb for nearly an Age, and it took less than thirty in Beleriand!”

“Didn’t you nearly bash your head open in Formenos right before I returned?” asks Caranthir politely.

Maedhros’ boot kicks up, just enough to splash Caranthir’s calves with mud. For a moment, the world is suspended- decision unmade, raindrops hanging in midair, Caranthir frozen. Perhaps he can ignore it. Perhaps he should. But he hasn’t been a younger brother- or an older brother, or any kind of brother at all- in so very long.

And the fact that he’s already muddied and hasn’t had a bath that wasn’t in a freezing river for months on end doesn’t matter. Caranthir flings himself at Maedhros, fast enough to bear him into the sodden grass, and they wrestle there like they haven’t done since before _Formenos,_ and before he knows it Maglor’s wading between them- ostensibly to break them apart, but really just egging them on indiscriminately- and all three of them are coated in mud and grass and bruises, and by the time they finally burst through the doors of Caranthir’s home, they’re breathless with laughter, half-nauseous from the four pints of mud they’ve definitely swallowed, and unrepentantly glad for having missed Amrod’s fish pie.

…

They scrub off- Caranthir’s quicker than the others; his hair is, at least, shorter and easier to wash- and he slips into some of his softer clothes, a loose shirt, cotton trousers. No shoes. His hair is damp, wicked against his neck, little drops down down the collar of his shirt, and he feels- light. Lighter. Like something made of glass and moonshine. He smiles at Nerdanel, and she stares at him like she’s never seen him before.

“This suits you,” drawls Amras, waving a hand from where he’s sprawled on the floor. “The… homeliness.”

“Brave words from someone breaking and entering my home without permission,” retorts Caranthir, sitting beside him and shoving at Amras until he rolls off of half the pillow. “You had to let Telvo cook in my kitchen, too? I could smell fish from a mile away.”

“Be thankful I ate that pie before you could,” mutters Amras. “The _salt-”_

“Hallo, Moryo,” calls Amrod, from across the room, lips twitching. 

Caranthir rolls onto his stomach so he can see him. “You know I don’t like fish,” he says- damned if he’ll be apologetic about it. Then he catches Feanor’s grimace, and breaks into a laugh. “Atya’s about two minutes from sending us to our rooms.”

“From sending _you_ to your room, you mean,” says Curufin.

Feanor sighs. “Just because I wish my sons to get along better than I do with my own-”

“-and I’ve _told_ you that siblings argue,” says Nerdanel, exasperated. “Not everyone is quite so… final, in their interactions as you, darling.”

“You hear that, Moryo?” asks Amras, shoving at him with his elbow. “We could’ve argued more in Beleriand and not disappointed Amme.”

Curufin sighs. “To be fair, if Moryo argued more with the Arafinweans we might well have had bloodshed, so it’s a good thing he decided to calm himself down.”

“If we’re bringing up ancient history, I’ve got some secrets about Himlad to spill, too,” says Caranthir mildly, and laughs, again, at Feanor’s frozen, disapproving face. “Speaking of which, where’s Tyelko?”

“On his way,” says Maglor, coming in with a towel wrapped around his hair. “The rain must have delayed him.”

“It’s quite strong isn’t it?” asks Amrod. “The rain, I mean. We don’t usually get it this heavy until mid-rainy season.”

“The mountains are closer to the clouds,” says Maedhros, and settles in front of Feanor without further ado. Their father starts parting his hair, gently combing it out. Caranthir makes a face at Maedhros, and gets a face made back: Maedhros remains the only one of them who’s ever actually enjoyed Feanor’s braids. “Which is where rain comes from. Have you ever been in the mountains for the rainy season?”

“So long as we don’t get washed away, I don’t mind,” says Maglor. His toe nudges Caranthir’s wrist, cold and long. “Please tell me you’ve built this house with good foundations.”

“If I haven’t, I’ll protect you from Namo,” says Caranthir, not opening his eyes.

“You’re an _awful_ brother.”

“I’m not the one who went wandering for six thousand years.”

“No,” says Curufin sweetly. “You just fucked off and made us worry for even longer.”

“Nienna told me that there aren’t only singular paths to joy,” says Caranthir. “She spent quite some time expounding on how all of you have reached enlightenment, or some such rot. Was yours torturing me?”

“Oh, yes,” says Curufin. “I was _very_ bored for all those years you remained in Mandos.”

“Children,” says Maedhros, mock-severely. “Can you _please_ stop being morbid before Atya decides to take my hair off at the roots?”

“It’ll grow back, won’t it?” mumbles Amras, and Caranthir elbows him. 

It’s then that a thunderclap- the loudest yet- resounds over them, hard enough to cause the windows to shudder. A wooden rake, stored in the corner, tips over. 

“It shouldn’t be raining this heavily,” says Caranthir, sitting up and frowning.

Nerdanel studies him. “It’s a good rainstorm, that’s all. Ulmo has done worse in his time.”

“Not so soon. I was here last year- building this house- it was raining, but not like _this.”_

“Perhaps it will rain so much the house shall slide down the mountainside,” says Maglor, “and we shall all be on a sled to Tirion before we know it.”

“Don’t laugh,” says Amrod. “Curufin’ll throw up all over you the moment things start moving, and we’ll be stuck with your complaints!”

“But they’ll be said in such a _lovely_ voice, Telvo-”

“-shut up,” says Caranthir harshly, and they all freeze.

Maglor looks faintly offended. “Caranthir-”

“Put those Valar-damned ears of yours to use for once,” snaps Caranthir back. “What do you hear?”

Maglor cocks his head. “Nothing… much. Thunder. Lightning. Trees, and grass, and what I assume to be horses in the stable. Moryo-”

 _“Trees,”_ whispers Caranthir, feeling the blood drain from his face. 

He can hear it too, now that he knows what to pay attention to: the slow, whittling cracks of roots giving way. Of trunks splitting, of branches falling, of- of-

Maedhros is in front of him, hair in disarray, hands clutching Caranthir’s face. “What about the trees?”

“They’re _dying,”_ snarls Caranthir, and rips away.

He snatches the fallen rake up, glances around for his cloak- but no, he’d left it in the bath to keep the rest of his house from getting muddied, and he hasn’t the _time_ now- and strides out.

 _“Moryo,”_ someone bellows, but he doesn’t bother to stop.

The orange orchard is not quite so far. Caranthir slips in the mud, once, twice- on the third, he’s there, finally, and catches himself on a thorned branch, swears- lets go- slides- and finally manages to get his feet under him.

“No,” he whispers, peering through the slick darkness to the roots. 

The rain has washed away the earth, and the saplings- the roots are bare and shining, like all the bones of all the people Caranthir’s never been able to save, and it is too much, now, _now,_ when he’s finally spoken of his daughters, when he’s finally remembering them. This last monument cannot be torn apart. This is all he _has,_ splinted saplings and thorned branches and sweet smells that leave him dizzy with grief. And he will not let it be taken from him again. 

Not again.

Not ever again.

The song lifts, rough and scraping and as wobbly as a newborn calf. Caranthir breaks off, shakes his head. Forces himself onwards. The song stabilizes into an even one, at least, low and rumbling but dense; it surrounds the orchard, encourages the mud to return. Bone needs flesh; roots need earth. It is not _quite_ a song of healing- Caranthir’s never had much ability in that- but it draws inspiration from it. And Caranthir’s always been good at twisting things to his own needs.

Lightning shreds the sky open, and Caranthir shouts over the corresponding roar of thunder, voice going loud, loud, louder still. He will not be drowned out again. These trees will survive, if he has to tear himself apart to keep them together.

But Caranthir is not enough.

He is bitterly, stingingly aware of that. Song has never been Caranthir’s weapon of choice. The strength of his song wavers, and the water is falling, and the roots are dripping bone-pale once more, and he is on his _knees_ now; Caranthir is begging, is forcing himself to keep going, but when has begging ever saved him? 

When has Caranthir ever been enough to save anyone?

His hands are bleeding, and he is cold. 

He has been cold ever since he was reborn. His hands will never be warm again. It is not a promise any longer: it is only wretched, paltry truth. A year’s work- all that he tried to build- is going to be washed away in Ulmo’s rains. Caranthir will be left with nothing, again. _Again._ How is he to pick it up now? It took Ages and Ages for him to get far enough to so much as look at life as something not revolting. And now…

Now.

The song cracks down the middle, and Caranthir closes his eyes. The water will take him. Perhaps he will drown. Perhaps it will be simpler. No: it _will_ be simpler. 

Hadn’t Curufin told him? _You make Atar’s life difficult._

And Caranthir’s response: _I make everyone’s lives difficult._

The song fades. Caranthir waits, ready to let the mud and water wash him away, but nothing happens. He blinks. Looks up.

Blinks again.

_Surely not._

Surely not!

It’s- he didn’t even _ask-_

Maglor and Nerdanel are standing atop a hillock, sporadically lit by lightning, and though he cannot hear them properly, Caranthir catches snippets of song- they’re holding it, the full orchard, better than Caranthir ever could alone. And beyond them, a little below, he thinks he can make out- is that _Curufin?-_ digging something.

Not just something.

A drainage system. And it’s not just Curufin. Feanor’s there, too, and Maedhros, leveraging his greater reach to get at the deeper clogged spots, and- 

-the twins are at his back, wide-eyed but grim-faced, one carrying an oiled cloak that he passes over Caranthir’s shoulders, the other providing a bulwark for him to lean on. 

“Drink,” says Amras, pressing something cool and hard against Caranthir’s lips.

It’s very bitter. Unwilling warmth sparks in Caranthir’s stomach, and he pulls away. But Amrod is there, to catch him before he falls, and to realize that the wetness on Caranthir’s palms is not just rainwater but also blood. 

“Amme,” he says, unbrookingly, and Caranthir’s tired enough to let them bully him over to where Maglor and Nerdanel are now trading off on their singing. It’s Maglor’s turn for a rest, so Amrod shows the palm: the deep scores of the needles, the slow blood. “I can heal it,” shouts Amrod over the thunder, “but I think it’ll be better to wait out the rain. There might be thorns caught beneath there.”

“Fine! Nelyo needs help!”

Amrod shoves Caranthir forward, until he’s close enough to feel the faint vibrations coming off of Maglor. “Don’t lose him!”

“Valar, I _hate_ the rain,” Maglor replies sharply. “Fine. Go! I’ll handle it!”

Amrod rushes off, and time skips after that- the next thing Caranthir knows, his mother is standing in front of him and re-doing the knot of his cloak so it sits easier on his shoulders. She guides him to sit down, heedless of the mud, and then throws her arms about him.

“Oh, _darling,”_ she says, and leans back, just far enough to see his face. “Maedhros told us about the trees. How- what- _who_ they represent to you.”

Caranthir gazes up at her.

“I’m only sorry we couldn’t come earlier,” says Nerdanel quietly. Her hand runs through his hair, dislodging clumps of mud. “And that you- that you feared so deeply, to lose this memory. I could feel it: your grief, your agony. Your fear. Whoever your daughters were, Carnistir- however well you knew them, or did not- you loved them. If you need me to assure you of that, have this assurance.”

“The best thing I could do for them was to stay away.”

“And the best thing you can do now is to remember them. And memory, my darling, darling son: that is not nothing.”

Caranthir closes his eyes. “The trees will die.”

“And they will flower again. But if any die, it will not be tonight. Your brothers and your father have saved that much, at least.”

He jerks, a little, but Nerdanel wraps him in arms made strong by hewing stone, by hauling marble. And when she tries to draw him back to the house he refuses, so that they are both still sitting there as the others return one by one: first Maglor, grumbling the entire time but not hesitating to sit himself down on the hill; then Amras, followed swiftly by Maedhros and Amrod; and Feanor, nearly at dawn; and finally, at long last, Curufin, face and hair and clothes all streaked with grime and mud and grass.

It is cold, but they all settle down there, together, a tiny knot of what was once the most frightening family in all of Arda.

“The only one missing is Tyelko,” says Amras softly.

Curufin laughs. “And not him for too long either! That is his horse, is it not?”

“The dun one he stole from Aegnor?” asks Maedhros.

“He _stole_ it?” demands Feanor sharply.

None of them speak for a moment. Then Maglor says, “Well, Aegnor didn’t refuse to attend Moryo’s housewarming, and he must’ve known Tyelko would be there, so I suppose he’s moved on.”

Caranthir doubts it- none of the Arafinweans are the kind to move _on,_ they prefer to bitch about it for decades on end, as Caranthir’s learned from bitter experience- but he suspects that everyone there knows that except for Feanor.

Even Feanor is aware enough to know he’s being placated, but it’s not like he has any inclination to do anything more than scold them. Which, apparently, the others have accepted as part and parcel of being one of their father’s sons.

“Well, at least the rains didn’t delay him for too long,” says Amrod, rather practically. “He’ll- _who_ is that on the horse? I thought we said we’d keep this for family only!”

“Oh, well done, Telvo,” says Curufin. “As if Menielwa isn’t your family too!”

“I’m just _saying_ that if we’re bringing others, I would’ve brought-”

“-the elf that we still don’t know the name of?” asks Curufin flatly.

“I know the name,” says Maedhros, sounding deeply amused.

Maglor coughs. Amras, sitting right next to Caranthir, shifts uncomfortably. 

“Three of you?” hisses Curufin. _“Three_ of you?”

“Amme and Atya don’t know!” protests Amrod.

“Which,” says Nerdanel calmly, “I will be discussing with you, darling.”

 _“We_ will be discussing,” says Feanor.

“Yes,” says Nerdanel. “We.”

“In the meantime,” says Amras- he always has been too protective of Amrod, Caranthir thinks, rather uncharitably- “I’d like to know more about this new person that Tyelko’s bringing with him.”

“It’s probably Huan,” says Amrod, clinging onto the single strain of distraction left to him. “Do you remember that time he dressed him up in a gown and tried to take him to a dance?”

“Somehow,” says Maglor wryly, “I don’t think Huan will agree to that now.”

“Are they talking again?” asks Nerdanel.

“As much as Tyelko ever does,” says Maedhros. Then his voice changes: from amusement to something balanced and careful. “I see he found what he wished.”

Maglor’s hand comes down on Caranthir’s knee and squeezes, hard enough to bruise. Caranthir grunts, trying to roll away, but Nerdanel- he finally opens his eyes to see- holds him back. Maedhros is standing in front of him, blocking his view.

“Is that-” Curufin sounds strangled, a little, and then he swallows, and all his voice holds is danger. “Who is that, Maedhros?”

Maedhros doesn’t move. “I thought I remembered correctly.”

“Stop taking my credit,” calls Celegorm from a little ways away, voice strangely hoarse. “I remembered it, not you!”

“We can share credit,” says Maedhros graciously.

“Nelyafinwe,” says Feanor, sharp as a blade. “Who _is this?”_

Nerdanel releases Caranthir, and he rises to his feet- his balance is off, a little, but not by much- and advances.

“Can’t you see the similarities?” asks Maglor, as annoyingly smug as ever.

But he puts a hand on Caranthir’s waist, a support just as much as a weight, and the dull colors of a cloudy dawn dip away as Caranthir finally makes out the elf following Celegorm: a girl, with hair as dark as Caranthir’s own and features as sharp as- as-

As-

As the woman they buried together.

“Hilin?” he rasps incredulously.

It’s impossible. It is- it is not just impossible, it is inconceivable.

She has tears in her eyes, and a hand pressed to her mouth, and his family is around him, and she is- she is _there,_ alive, scars around her temples, hair loose about her shoulders, eyes like twinned blades and her mother’s ribbons and the sky after a storm, like Caranthir’s own eyes, Noldorin silver, Noldorin steady, Noldorin fierce.

“Hello, Atar,” she says, pronouncing the words carefully.

Someone makes a sound behind Caranthir, but it barely registers. He steps forward, once, and then twice, slowly and then faster. Hilin dismounts fluidly- she’d always been a good rider, he remembers abruptly- and then she’s in his arms, and she is- well, she’s thinner than he’d like, and she’s shaking, and he can feel tears soaking through his own shirt, which is not _good-_ but she’s alive. She’s alive. She’s in his arms, and she is alive, and he will never let her go, not for everything in all of Arda. 

_“How?”_ he asks.

“I died,” she says, voice muffled. “And then I woke in these- Halls. And I recognized them.”

“My stories?”

“Your stories,” she agrees. “I was given a choice: to walk into the light, or to stay. And everyone else was going, everyone I knew, but… I didn’t want to follow them when they didn’t even know where they were headed. None of the others could choose, but I could, and I did.”

“To stay,” whispers Caranthir. He pulls away. His mother had held him like this- not more than half a day previous- hands on cheeks, fingers on the temple, grip unyielding and comforting in its strength- and now he does the same for little Hilin. “You chose to become an elf.”

“Namo said you’d never be released.”

She is not so little now, he thinks. Becoming an elf has lent her height and strength that Hilin hadn’t had in Beleriand. Her eyes are larger, her face smoother- but beneath all of that ephemera is still his daughter: the girl who’d begged him for a thousand tales of bravery and then written her own story in fire and fury and desperate glory.

“I did not expect to be,” says Caranthir. Scrapes the words out: who does he owe them to, if not for her? “Not ever. I thought you passed on, with Hileth, with your mother.”

“I outlived them, didn’t I?” She smiles. “I was the younger one. Hileth had the children; she had the duties, and she knew them, and she performed them. But I walked my own path. I will not deny that it has been lonely, all these Ages spent alone, but.” Hilin swallows. “But I would not change it.”

He brushes a finger over her cheekbone, soft as the rain misting around them. “I’m sorry.”

“What matter the past?” Hilin steps back, and tosses her hair, eyes blazing. “You cannot erase what you did, nor what you threatened. All we can do is move forward.”

“Hear hear,” calls Curufin. Caranthir flinches- he’d forgotten the others were there- but that doesn’t stop his brother. “We’ve been telling him that for a hell of a long time. Perhaps you’ll finally get it through his enormously thick skull.”

Caranthir sends her an apologetic look before turning back to Curufin. “I’ll move forward,” he growls, “right until I smash my thick skull into your fragile one.”

Hilin snorts. Her eyes are bright now, no longer furious, no longer blazing; lit with humor and not with anger. “Celegorm warned me that your family’s an… unruly brood.”

“She didn’t believe I was your brother, actually,” says Celegorm. “I had to take her to meet Kano. She’s a suspicious little bat, your daughter.”

“He also told me that you express love through insults,” says Hilin, without missing a beat.

Caranthir sighs. “You and I certainly don’t look like each other, Tyelko. Don’t tell me you were offended by that.” Then he grimaces at Hilin. “And really, the best policy’s not to take offense to any of us. If you can’t help it, just shout about it for a couple hours. Or try to stick a knife in their gut. So long as it isn’t deadly, we’ll get over it.”

 _“No,”_ says Nerdanel, elbowing her way through the crowd until she’s right next to them. _“Don’t_ do that. Please.”

“Usually I’d say that Nelyo would be safely un-insulting,” comments Maglor, “but he’s made a habit of poking wasp nests in Formenos, so really, you’re left with no safe harbor.”

“I spent more than a fortnight with Uncle Celegorm,” says Hilin. “I think I can keep my temper.”

“Fighting words!” exclaims Amras, and collars Caranthir and Hilin both to drag them up the hill, back to the house that did not, in fact, get washed away by the rains.

As they go, Caranthir slipping in the mud, hand and wrist still bloody and only hastily bandaged over from the thorns of the tree he planted for his family, his daughter looking faintly alarmed at Amrod’s exuberance, he thinks about it: the grief, the fear, the loss; the anger of it all. At the top of the hill he pauses, and for the briefest of moments a beam of sunlight pierces through the clouds to shine down upon the mountainside. Everything gleams: the water turns it all fresh and shining and green.

 _Onwards,_ thinks Caranthir, and steps into his home, smiling wider than he has in a very, very long time.

...

**Epilogue:**

He braids her hair that night.

It is smoother now. It’s been so long since Caranthir touched someone with hair quite this rough, but he remembers Haleth’s to have been worse; he remembers Hilin’s to have been worse, too, once upon a time, if never quite so tough as her mother’s. But it is long now as it was not the last time that Caranthir saw Hilin- then, she’d chopped it short to mourn Hileth’s death, and it still had not grown back. And it is the first time that they are alone since she returned.

Caranthir braids it slowly, with unrelenting focus. 

If he wavers, he will remember how improbable it is to even have Hilin in front of him: the only contact that she ever had with any of his family had been in those moments after they died, in the dim, cool shadows of Mandos’ halls. But she’d not been tainted with Namo’s doom as the Feanorians; she’d been cordoned off from them as quickly as possible. Celegorm, particularly, remembered Hilin’s fea well- he’d died mourning Caranthir, hadn’t he?- and then Amrod had felt her too, and so had Maedhros; and combined with Caranthir’s confession to Feanor of _having_ daughters, it’d been enough to spur them into searching for her.

Into _finding_ her.

It should’ve been impossible. She’s been in the woods, living mostly alone. Celegorm’s expedition shouldn’t have worked: it’d been a whisper of a friend, a chance statement overheard in an inn, a passing murmur that he chased down fervently. It should have been impossible. 

But it isn’t.

Caranthir breathes in, out, and ties the braid off. Hilin sighs, eyes large and dark, meeting his in the mirror. When he places his hands on her shoulders she places her palms over his, cool and dry as buried stone.

Her eyes meet his in the mirror.

“Celegorm told me what happened after I died.”

Caranthir’s hands tighten. “Did he.”

“That you watched Hileth’s grandson die.”

“Ah. I did.”

“That you didn’t want to live.”

“I… did not.”

“Well, I didn’t want a father,” says Hilin crisply, and Caranthir flinches, but she doesn’t let go of him, holding on with grim strength. “But these things happen. We don’t always get what we want.” She pauses, then smiles at him, so savagely that he stills. “We don’t always know what we should want, do we?”

“Do you regret it, then?” asks Caranthir, breathing in through the pain lancing through his ribs. “Becoming an elf- do you regret it?”

She rises, and turns, so she’s kneeling on the chair and almost of a height with him. Her eyes are brighter than Caranthir ever thought someone who never saw the Trees could be. 

“I regret _nothing,”_ she says fiercely. “I loved my sister and my mother and my people, and we all died for them, and that was as it should be. But I was not just a Haladin! I was not just carved for love! There are other things I wanted, and I found in Valinor that which I would never have seen if I chose to remain with what I understood.” She reaches up and grips him, nails digging into his neck, his cheeks, his jaw. That jaw: the jaw she’d inherited from Caranthir, sharp as a cut of ragged stone. Once, Haleth had scoffed at Caranthir’s sneer and told him to learn more about grief. Now her daughter clutches Caranthir’s close, and she says, “There is more to life than you know, Atar. And no matter how many years you have as an elf, they are still too short for regret.”

Caranthir laughs, dryly, ignoring the wetness of it. “I’ve done much to regret.”

“Then _do_ something,” she says. “You think there’s redemption to be found here? In a mausoleum of grief and stone?”

For a moment, Caranthir stares at her. There is rage somewhere in his chest; disbelief, and rage, and a potent mixture of grief as well. But Hilin doesn’t flinch from his expression. Her hands are holding him there, holding him _down,_ grounding and flaying in equal measure.

“It isn’t just a mausoleum,” he grinds out, finally. “The trees...”

Something flashes across Hilin’s expression, and then she lets go of him and sits back, ignoring the warning creak of the chair.

“The orange trees?” she clarifies. At his nod, her lips twitch. “Are those for you?”

“For _you._ And Haleth. And- Hileth.”

“Father,” says Hilin, voice trembling. He panics, looking at her, but those aren’t tears in her eyes; it’s laughter. _“Father._ You remember the real story behind that, don’t you?”

“What real story?”

“The- oranges! Hileth and I spent _years_ laughing about it!”

Caranthir frowns. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You gave us an orange to eat,” says Hilin impatiently. “It was good- I don’t think I’ve ever seen Hileth’s eyes get that large- but then you started eating the peel! And then Hileth tried it, and the _face_ she made-” Hilin snorts, “-and she’d already finished eating the fruit so she had to sit with that bitterness until she could get water.”

“Orange peel isn’t poisonous.”

“It’s fucking disgusting,” Hilin informs him. “And elvish tongues are more sensitive. I don’t know how you do it.”

“Iron stomach,” he says wryly.

“Maybe.” Hilin pauses, hesitates. Then she tosses her braid out of the way, and looks up at him, direct. “I don’t know how to be a daughter. Or- a niece. Or a granddaughter. I’ve been alone for a long time.”

“That is- understandable.” Caranthir inclines his head. “From what I’ve seen, there’s no singular answer.”

“I won’t be able to stay here forever.”

“I wouldn’t ask that of you.”

“But.” She presses her hands together, then lifts her head, and all the ferocity- all the sharpness- has drained into someone who looks as gentle as Haleth had, that first time she’d beheld him holding the two girls, something so tender it looks almost painful. “But I’m glad you’re here. I- it has been a very long time, being alone, and not all of it easy.”

“No,” says Caranthir gently, catching a loose curl and tugging it at until she smiles back at him. “I would not imagine that evading all of our family in Valinor would have been easy.”

Hilin laughs. “No, indeed! Namo wished to tell Finrod, or Fingon- someone like that, I wasn’t paying much attention- but I refused him. I’d no wish to be a cosseted thing as that niece of yours was, and I certainly don’t have the wisdom that your mothers were apparently known for.”

“You heard about Finduilas?” asks Caranthir, amused.

“Mother used to threaten to send us to Nargothrond if we were unruly.”

“Oh, I can’t wait to tell Orodreth how the Edain saw him.” Caranthir wraps his hand about Hilin’s wrist. “And it matters not if you have not wisdom- I certainly do not- nor calm- Haleth did not- nor patience- neither of us ever have. You are our daughter. Our _daughter._ We have forgiven far worse sins, for far worse people.”

“Your brothers will not like you saying that.”

“My brothers,” says Caranthir, “can go _hang.”_

Hilin laughs, hand rubbing over the ends of her dark hair, spilling with slender silver ribbons. “Well, then! Silver ribbons, Atar: silver ribbons, and orange peel, and all the blood in the world.” Her smile is fierce and fell once more, but that is only right, this laughter between them that is sweetly dangerous, this love between them that is honed and forged in death. “Every joy is full of grief, my mother used to say: and every grief full of joy. We are here, are we not? Here, and not leaving anytime soon.”

Her hand is in his. His daughter, whom he never thought to see- she is _here,_ before him. Caranthir smiles back at her, a lightness in his bones that he hasn’t felt- that he hasn’t allowed himself to feel- for far, far too long. 

“No,” he says hoarsely, and draws her forward so he can hold her close, wrap her in arms that don’t quite believe that she lives yet. “No, darling. Now- now we’re here to stay.”


End file.
